


trial by fire

by purple01_prose



Series: frozen heart saga [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst, D/s elements, Deity Meddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Light BDSM, M/M, Marriage Rites, Miscarriage, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, PostWar, Pregnancy, The Great Marriage, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2019-10-14 19:09:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 52,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17514272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple01_prose/pseuds/purple01_prose
Summary: It's been a single, blessed year, and Primus has decided to screw them yet again. Or so it seems, as Windblade and Starscream are rebuilding the city, only for there to be unexplained fires, a murder, a would-be assassination, oh, and a wedding. Somehow, out of all of that, the wedding is the worst, because the wedding means guests, and guests mean...Elita.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [bookoftheazuresky](https://bookoftheazuresky.tumblr.com) and [auro-bot](https://auro-bot.tumblr.com) on Tumblr for proofreading Chapter 1 for me. That was invaluable, thank you!
> 
> Warnings in this chapter include violence, autopsies, and mentions of potential rape.

**Chapter 1: The Coming of Spring**

* * *

 

_ March 31, 1038 _ _  
_ _ Iacon _

Windblade rolled over in bed, her skin hot even to her own touch. She was uncomfortable in her long nightgown, despite it being made of cotton, and she pushed away her covers. There was a moment of relief as the cool air of her bedchamber touched her skin, but then she could  _ feel _ how her skin’s temperature rose.

She groaned and pulled her nightgown over her head. Please, Solus, she groaned mentally, let me have some  _ relief. _

She was trying to create some by sponging down her body with the cool water from her water basin when Starscream opened their shared door with a sheaf of documents in his hands. “Metalhawk has put up a bill to require all new buildings to have permits and to create zones of building space,” he said without looking up. “I’m not against this, but it would fuck up our existing space and I’m not sure if it’s a good idea because of this. What do you--think?” He looked up finally and saw how she was using a wet cloth to wipe her chest and upper thighs.

She was delighted at the rush of red that spread over his face. This past winter had been something of a tug-of-war between them as he had to sort out just what emotions were, when they were appropriate, and which emotional reactions were necessary. He had finally gotten to where he could be considered ‘stable’--this was the first winter where he hadn’t been cold all winter long. They had had a very frank conversation around the turn of the year where she had brought to his attention that he had never been comfortable with his magic and that had led to his magic sitting uneasily in him. The most obvious sign of that was how susceptible he was to cold.

It also meant he actually had spontaneous reactions now, which could be entirely amusing, like it was in that moment. He cleared his throat and dropped his eyes back to his notes. “W-what do you think?”

She was too uncomfortable to pull a robe on, so she wiped away the accumulating sweat from under her arms and considered the proposal. “We are not exactly  _ doing _ a great deal of new building,” she mused. “Most construction we are doing are tearing down old buildings that are no longer inhabitable or refurbishing what we have. I would wonder why he’s bringing it up now, before we meddle with creating zones in the city.”

“Fair point.” He looked up at her. “Why are you--lacking clothes?”

“If I told anyone Starscream could be embarrassed, I could be accused of lying,” she tilted her head and tried not to wince at how her heavy braid moved against her skin. 

“I’m not embarrassed!” 

“Right,” she agreed with a smile. “No, I’m just warm.”

Starscream’s eyebrows went up, and he put down the papers on the sideboard before coming to her side. He touched her arm, and his eyes widened. She waited patiently as he pressed the back of his hand against her forehead. “Are you  _ ill? _ ”

“I don’t  _ get _ ill,” she said.

“But your magic isn’t shifting like mine was,” he said. He was looking her up and down, and she glanced downward. Her magic was resting along her veins and arteries like normal. “Are you tired?”

“I just woke up,” she pointed out. “We’re always a little tired.”

He straightened his shoulders. “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said with a slight hint of smugness. No, not a slight hint.  _ All _ the smugness. “I’ve been up for hours.”

Probably because he hadn’t gotten to sleep last night, she thought, but she had learned how to handle him by now. “I’m not sure it’s magical exhaustion,” she said. “I’ve been working hard over the past few days, but not any harder than normal. We’ve been preparing the soil for sowing now that the last of the snow has melted.”

“Hm.” He took the cloth from her hand to wipe down her back. Her skin was buzzing from his nearness, a welcome change.  She had been so lethargic during this past winter that every time they attempted sex, she had fallen asleep halfway through. After the third time, he had quit in a pet and swore that he wouldn’t touch her again until he could trust she would  _ stay awake _ .

Coolness spread from his skin to hers, and she sighed as she pressed against him. His whole body was cool in comparison to hers, and she wanted the comfort. Starscream wrapped his arms around her chest and leaned his chin on her shoulder. “You could be ill,” he murmured in her ear. “Being exposed to Sentinel’s spark energy might have changed something and it needed a winter season to bring it out.”

“That is--terrifying.” Windblade leaned her cheek against Starscream’s. “You’re very comfortable.”

“Is that a proposition?” His voice was light and wry, even through his rasp, but she could feel his cord stiffening against her thigh, and she hid a smile. 

“Would you like it to be?”

He turned his head to nip her skin under her ear. “Will you stay awake?”

The buzzing under her skin was making her a little dizzy, but one thing was clear: she was  _ not _ tired anymore. “If you give me a reason.”

He growled and picked her to take her to bed, where he gave her a reason to stay awake. Several, screaming ones, if she was being completely honest.

* * *

_ April 4, 1038  
_ _ Iacon _

Starscream groaned into his pillow. “I’m so sore.” He lifted his head up slightly to look at Windblade, who was lying next to him, her long black hair matted and tangled down her back. “Aren’t you sore?”

“Ask me a less complicated question,” she moaned as she buried her face in her pillow. 

It took an effort to roll over, and when he did, he stared up at the ceiling of her bedchambers. They had been in bed for  _ five days,  _ alternating between sleep and utter ravishment. A moment’s worth of panic made him check her hands instinctively, and he calmed down when he spotted the braided silver ring on her left fourth finger. “You decided to store up your whole sexual appetite from the winter and use it up all at once,” he informed her as he rested his hand against the curve of her buttock with a light  _ smack _ . “I’m too old for this.”

“The fact that you kept up is proof that you are not,” she said pertly, but she hadn’t managed to roll over yet and he had. “I don’t know where that came from.”

“Is this going to be an annual thing?” he demanded. “Because I’m not sure how to tell the Council not to expect either of us for the first five days of April because my wife needs to be swived out of her mind.”

“We’re not married yet,” she protested.

“Next month,” he reminded her. “May 2. I refused to be married on that terrible holiday of yours. It was a whole argument.”

“It isn’t a terrible holiday,” she said.

“Thus the argument.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “ _ Is _ this going to be an annual thing?”

“I don’t know,” her voice was muffled through the pillow. “It’s never happened before.”

“So let’s just hope it’s not.” His abdominal muscles ached, his cord was informing him in no uncertain terms he would not be having sex for days, if not  _ weeks _ , and his knees were a mass of raw red skin. “I’m too old for this kind of sex marathon.”

“Me too,” she agreed forlornly. “I have to work with the farmers today.”

“Oh no,” he buried his face in his hands. “I have to sit through a meeting about crop yields and how we’re forecasting the harvest season.”

They glanced at each other, and without any further cues, they burst into laughter. The laughter devolved into Starscream gasping, “My stomach hurts.”

Windblade laughed harder as she pushed herself upright. “That’s the best kind of hurt.” She swung her legs over the bed and managed to stand upright. It took her a few more moments to be able to walk, and he propped himself up on his elbows to watch her toddle to the small apothecary cabinet that had been his Midwinter gift to her. She pulled out two jars of ointment, and she fed magic into the ointment as she worked her way back to the bed. He raised an eyebrow as she passed him one of the jars.

“Muscle relaxant,” she said. “It will help.”

“Did you plan this?” he inquired, impressed.

She rolled her eyes in lieu of pointing at the apothecary cabinet. “It means we can actually go to work.” She sat down on the edge of the bed and unscrewed the cap of her jar. Instantly the room was awash with the scent of jasmine, a flower whose virtues he had been informed of at length over the long winter, and while it was very useful, it was not a muscle relaxant.

“Did you add the scent to this?” he asked as he worked at the cap of his jar. She had warmed it with her magic, and it too smelled like jasmine. From the color--a pale green--and the thick consistency, he suspected aloe was the base herb. 

“I can’t stand the scent of aloe anymore,” she said shortly. 

He left it alone. They both had scars they hid. He scooped out a palmful of the warm gel and started to massage it into his knees, which hurt the most, and he was pleased when the red abrasions closed and ached less. “Comfrey’s in this too!”

“I’m so proud of your knowing basic herbcraft,” she said in her sweetest, most condescending voice. 

He scowled at her back. “You kept rambling about it all winter. I had to retain  _ something. _ ”

She laughed. “Once you’re done with your legs and stomach, I’ll get your back if you’ll get mine.”

“Won’t the plants in the field be jealous you smell like jasmine?” he asked as he hurried to finish. She would use heat in her hands to work the gel into his skin, and it would feel  _ amazing. _ “Do plants get jealous?”

“Not like you’d think,” she yawned as she extended an arm to rub the gel in. “And we’re mapping and sowing today. Seeds are like babies. They’re not very aware of what’s around them.”

“And that’s something else I’m going to retain now,” he grumbled. “Why map it?”

“The fields are very large and between sowing and harvest, it can easy to forget what exactly is where, especially if it’s a root vegetable.” She turned toward him as she finished up rubbing the gel into her chest. “Each vegetable has a slightly different schedule and you don’t want to harvest it too early.”

“How are you going to deal with pests? I don’t want to lose a winter’s worth of food to birds and insects.” He turned around when she gestured for him to do so, already happily anticipating her warm hands on his shoulders and back. 

“Wildflowers and certain herbs will be planted in strips alongside the crops,” she said, “they’ll repel most ground-dwelling pests and the green witches have been working anti-blight spells into the soil for the past three weeks. The snow helped lock in the spells and allowed them to grow in power. As for birds--well, we put our heads together and compared notes. The best options we found were to place posts every seven yards or so, connect them with ribbons and twine and string noisemakers like chimes and small mirrors from them. It won’t be completely effective and we’ll like lose at least some of the crop to the birds, but it’s better than nothing.” She sighed. “I had read a story once in Eukaris that some witches had made a bargain with the local birds, that the birds would not be hunted and given a share of the crop in exchange for leaving the crop alone during the growing season. I  _ wish _ we could do that now.”

“It sounds like a fairy story.” He tilted his head forward to allow her better access to his neck. Oh.  _ Heaven. _

“There’s usually some truth to the fairy stories. Well, Airazor and Tigatron are coming for the wedding. I can ask them when they get here.”

Right. The wedding. The wedding had been planned during the winter--Thundercracker had stood over them both until all the invitations went out before the official onset of winter--and now, with only five weeks left until the ceremony, he was almost...nervous.

No, that wasn’t the right emotion. It  _ felt _ like nervousness, but it wasn’t, exactly. It had the same sense of anticipation, but the underlying emotion was different. He sighed as she took her hands away and he turned around to perform the same function for her. He would know the emotion later. The breaking of the curse had re-introduced him to emotions he hadn’t felt in years, and he didn’t always have the words for them.

He would in time, Hook had promised him once, but he was still adjusting to  _ feeling _ things. Moreover, it wasn’t enough to feel them, but to have to  _ act _ on them--anger and disgust had been the easiest emotions to act on. Other emotions were harder.

The gel tingled slightly on his skin, but when he sat up, his muscles didn’t shriek at him. 

They had to help each other get dressed. They couldn’t quite get their coats on, and she needed help to lace up the back of her work dress. She groaned when she bent down to pick up the hem and loop it around her belt to keep the fabric from dragging in the mud. “I don’t want to wear shoes.”

“So don’t,” Starscream offered as he slipped his feet into silk slippers that required no ties whatsoever.

Windblade glared in the direction of her tall leather boots. “Easy for you to say. You don’t have to bend over to put them on.”

“No, but I can admire the view,” he said as he ogled her from behind. She flashed him an obscene hand gesture, and he snorted. “You learned that one from  _ me. _ ”

“Go away,” she complained as she sat down to laboriously pull on her boots. “Go do something else.”

“Instead of you?” He leaned back to kiss her cheek. “If you insist.”

She batted at him, but he could see how she was hiding a smile. The winter had been hard, on multiple levels, but they had survived, and their affection for each other was stronger than it had ever been. 

Standing up took an effort, but when he started moving, he felt better. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said over his shoulder. “Don’t set anything on fire.”

“I’ll set  _ you _ on fire,” she muttered rebelliously, and then she added, “Don’t forget--magic practice tonight.”

He groaned theatrically, and left her.

\--

When Windblade arrived at what was going to be the potato beds, she was greeted with catcalls and whistles from her fellow workers. “Lucky lady!” one of them called as they started to sort through the tubs of potato eyes. 

“Got swived proper, did you?” another one added, and the assembled workers laughed.

Windblade’s face and neck were bright red, but she knew they were happy to tease her out of affection, not malice, so she didn’t snap at them. Besides, she  _ had _ gotten lucky. Her blush spread down her chest as she remembered Starscream between her legs, with her hand tangled in his hair, and then that memory led to another one--she was three fingers into his quim while she swallowed his cord down her throat, and--.

“Lady,” her first assistant said, “whatever you’re thinking about, it’s exciting the plants and we need them not to root until they’re in the ground.”

Startled, Windblade looked down at the potato eyes and sure enough, there were roots extending from each eye. She flushed a deeper red and stepped back. “My apologies,” she said. 

Her first assistant winked at her. “It’s good to see you happy,” she said, “but perhaps...not around the potatoes.”

Windblade giggled at a little and went to prepare the first of many potato beds. She delighted in the feeling of good, strong soil on her skin and the slight damp of it, causing the dirt to stick to her skin. She was in such good cheer she could ignore the feeling of dirt under her nails. 

The sun crawled upwards, burning away the lingering chill from the night prior and warming the soil under Windblade’s hands. The soil was happy too, and unlike the excitable potato eyes, it was happy to have her recall what had transpired the previous few days. The warmth that rose from her skin was good for it, and the bits of magic that came with it only made the soil richer. 

It was getting toward noon when one of the workers came to Windblade. “My lady,” the worker said. Windblade hadn’t caught their name. There were so many working in the fields to ensure a strong harvest for the city that she hadn’t had the chance to meet them all. “There is a courier heading for the city. He said he carried messages from Caminus and Eukaris.”

“I’ll leave it alone,” she said. “It can wait.”

The rest of her day was tied up with the potatoes. Once the beds had been prepared, the potato eyes would be placed in the mounds and then they could essentially be forgotten about until the time came to harvest them. That would give them time to work on sowing the wheat, barley, and rye, and then would come the vegetables. 

Windblade would have preferred to postpone the wedding until after the sowing season--that would make it early June--but Starscream had put his foot down. They had discussed the wedding being in November, but that would have made their guests stay for the winter season and that would have been too much. Then it was discussed to have it be in March, but there would still be snow on the ground.

“May 2,” Starscream had said flatly. “That’s it. No more delays. It gives everyone time to get here.”

“But sowing!” she had protested.

“There will always be something. I’m making a decision, and we’re going to stick to it. May 2.”

He had had a point, and she was excited about the wedding--but her worry over the sowing was clouding it a little. She didn’t even have a wedding dress. She had suspicions about what Lightbright would be sending.

When the sun started to head toward the horizon, the workers returned to the city. Windblade found three letters in her study waiting for her, with none of the signs that the letters had been steamed open and sealed again. The wards she had set on her study to protect her private correspondence from Aileron was working. 

(It was a conscience spell. Aileron, despite being a spy for her mother, had a strong sense of honor and the merest hint that she was injuring her own honor somehow would get her to stop doing something. Honor was a bad thing in a spy).

She pushed aside the two letters from Eukaris in favor of Lightbright’s. She curled up on her chaise and patted the cushions for Victorion to join her. Victorion jumped up and sprawled over her curled legs, and Windblade scratched the plains cat behind the ears before she slit open the envelope with a hair pin.

Lightbright’s letters were always a mix of gossip, jokes, and actual news. Windblade skimmed through the gossip, but when she got to the actual news, she raised her eyebrows. Well.  _ That _ was an interesting development.

She checked the clock. Ah yes. Starscream’s council should be getting out in the next ten minutes. He would go looking for her in the private garden--she had initially chosen one of the cavernous ballrooms for magic lessons, but after he froze the support pillars solid during an argument, she had elected to move them outdoors where Metroplex could act as a check on  _ both _ of them.

She left her boots behind. Her feet wished to be free.

Starscream found her on the wooden bridge that divided the large garden in half. It was built over part of the stream Metroplex had created from his spring near the pavilion down the garden into a shallow pool. The grass was coming in, and next year, the cherry trees would be mature enough to bloom, if not to have fruit. By the end of the summer, the willow branches would create a pleasing veil between the spaces she had so carefully carved out and the greater part of the garden. 

She was dipping her toes in the water and smiling absently at the brightly-colored fish who were nibbling at them. Metroplex liked to be surrounded by living things. The gardens had more birds and fish than Windblade could ever have introduced herself. Starscream sat down next to her and slipped off his shoes to put his feet in the water with her. 

The water was warmer than it should be, for a night that was making them both see their breath. They sat in silence for a bit as Windblade swished her feet back and forth in the water, creating tiny ripples that sent the immature lily pads back toward the stony shore. “I got a letter from Lightbright,” she said finally. “There was some interesting news in it.”

“Oh no,” Starscream groaned, only partially theatrically, “she’s coming to the wedding.”

“She says she has a request to make of us from Mother. It’s not a life-ender, she promises, but it does need to be a face-to-face conversation. The letter was dated three weeks ago, so I am expecting that we will see her in another week, if the weather was good on the Stellar Ocean.”

“What else is there?” Starscream asked warily. “Has your brother done something stupid?”

Windblade beamed at him. “Oh, you’ll  _ love _ it--but after magic practice.”

“Uggghhh,” he said expressively.

She got to her feet and planted her hands on her hips. “Well?”

“Uggghhhh,” he repeated, with more feeling, but he stood. They backed away until they were ten paces from each other, and Windblade flicked her fingers to set up the wards that would keep their powers from leaking out of the garden. 

It had been a losing proposition to have Windblade teach Starscream emotional control. He would get annoyed with her, or she would be frustrated with him, so he instead practiced different techniques of control with Ravage, who had no patience for his shenanigans (it helped that he was a little afraid of her), and Windblade helped him with the practical control exercises. 

He took a breath to center himself. His magic lived in his chest, a shield around his spark, and he could see it in his mind’s eye. It was yellow, but not the yellow of infection. Inside him, where it was untainted, it was the color of rich butter, almost gold, and it raced eagerly to meet his call.

Beneath the bridge, the water iced over everywhere except where Metroplex’s spring was. The night birds went silent, and when he opened his eyes, he could see the colors of the living world around him. Windblade shone scarlet in his vision--her whole body was threaded with it, with a deeper burgundy where her spark lived. The growing plants shimmered cerise and emerald--cerise for life, emerald for their own magic--and Metroplex was the essence of silver..

He blinked and the colors disappeared, to his relief. Seeing magic like that for longer than a few seconds was overwhelming. Then he had to brace himself, because fire was coming.

He placed his hands together and forced cold into the air. He pushed toward the fire, and the cold suppressed it until the fire went out. Windblade beamed at him, but she didn’t give him much of a breather as more fire came his way.

The point of these little exercises was how to find his power and grasp it regardless of what was going on. Apparently Windblade had gone through similar exercises when she was younger.

He had been getting better at it--she always kept him from getting burned, but his clothes had been singed more than once. Tonight, when she sent a thread of flame toward him, he saw the magic that made it and he crooked his fingers at it.

When his magic met hers, the flame turned into something else. It wasn’t flame, but it burned brightly to the eye. He was so startled that his magic withdrew, and the flame/light/ _ whatever _ died. Windblade withdrew her fire. “What’s wrong?”

“Didn’t you see that?” he demanded.

Her lips lifted in a small smile. “It’s an extension of what we’ve already done,” she pointed out, “but this time it happened in the middle of a more physical exercise. As you get more control, it will happen more. Are you ready?” 

He bared his teeth at her. “More than you know.”

This time, when she re-engaged, she engaged with raw magic instead of fire. Heat rippled off it, and when his magic went to meet her, the heat/cold combination made the air around them grow heavy with humidity. He saw her gaze flicked upward, and he copied her to see that clouds were starting to block off the stars. 

They had yet to find a way to work their magics together that didn’t cause a storm event. Windblade pulled her magic back, and Starscream sent a burst of magic that froze over all the water in the garden, except for Metroplex’s spring. 

“I am so glad that the plants are still in winter hibernation,” Windblade remarked dryly as she walked down the bridge to go down to the water’s edge. Starscream vaulted over the railing to land with a thud on the frozen surface of the water below. He didn’t slip. The more comfortable he became with his magic, the less ice and cold inconvenienced him.

It was annoying, but Windblade had been right about that.

“Oh, please, they’ll survive,” he told her as he shoved his hands in his pockets. “You could repair them.”

“You have confused me with a green witch,” she said. “I know I’ve been working in the fields, but I can promise that I am  _ not. _ ”

He made a face at her. “You chose to work in the fields.”

“I am welcome there.” She smoothed down the back of her work dress before seating herself on the ground. “I have some family gossip for you.”

He tested the ice underneath his feet, and when it felt solid, he started to push his feet along the surface. It was more skidding than skating, but still fun. “Oh?”

“Thunderblast is pregnant.”

He stopped. “ _ Really. _ ”

“That was my response.”

“I thought Hot Shot was too ill to be able to sustain…?”

“Lightbright has said that they found a healer to treat the symptoms of his bone disease. It can’t be cured, but he has more energy now. I presume that has helped,” Windblade said archly.

He snorted. “What does your mother think?”

“Alas, my sister failed to convey that.” Windblade leaned back on her hands. “But I believe Thunderblast recently changed her household staff entirely.”

“Hm,” he mused, beginning to skid again. “What does this mean for Lightbright? She’s Hot Shot’s heir, isn’t she?”

“Technically,” Windblade began, and he sighed in preparation. “Hot Shot was never declared heir presumptive. I was the only one who was declared  _ not _ to be. Signing the betrothal contract just made that even more clear. It was just presumed Hot Shot was heir presumptive. Lightbright could still be the heir.”

“But…” he said. Camien politics were so strange. In Vos, when the heir was born, they were declared the heir presumptive then and there without needing some kind of formal ceremony. It was highly unusual for an heir to be stripped of their status, and more common for an heir to abdicate in favor of a sibling. 

“Hot Shot’s wife being pregnant means that the Council is less likely to support Lightbright’s claim,” Windblade said. “They’re not...thrilled about Hot Shot, but the idea of a child they could mold into what they want is more attractive. A lot of them think Lightbright is too flighty to make an effective Mistress of Flame.”

“And of course, no one could see that particular point.”

Windblade scowled at him before sighing. “She still has yet to announce to the court she’s married. As long as Hot Shot is the presumed heir and she’s still finishing her education in the Temple, her marriage is not a matter of state. If Hot Shot is removed from the succession, for whatever reason, Lightbright’s marriage becomes a matter of national importance. At best, her current marriage will be decreed a morganatic marriage. At worst, it will be dissolved so she can make a different one.”

“If it is declared a morganatic marriage, could Thunderblast’s child be declared her heir instead of children of that particular union?” Starscream was fascinated by this peek into alien politics. Caminus kept their political struggles quiet from the rest of the world; even Elita’s interference with Windblade had been turned into a story of Windblade being a wanton instead of what it actually was: a strategic seduction intended to manipulate the second lady of the land into marriage. 

“That is a possibility. That is likely what Thunderblast would prefer as well,” Windblade confessed. “It would keep her position at court. I suspect she has no desire to be the childless widow of the prince of Caminus. And my mother is hale and hearty. There is a chance that should she die and the throne pass to Lightbright, it may only be a short time before the child would inherit themselves.”

“Aren’t you glad you’re here instead of there?” Starscream asked brightly.

Windblade laughed. “I wish I had more accurate information,” she admitted, “but yes, I am grateful not to be a player in those particular politics. At least, I’m grateful until the next time I have to wrangle with Metalhawk.”

“Aw, he’s trying,” Starscream drawled. “He’s almost endearing these days.”

“Because  _ you’re _ not the one who’s dealing with him every day.”

He acknowledged her point with a shrug. “Anything else of interest from Lightbright?”

“She’s coming to the wedding. I think she’s excited to be leaving Caminus for a bit. She also has something she needs to discuss with us, something she couldn’t put in a letter.” Windblade rolled her eyes. “But it isn’t bad, apparently. Just sensitive.”

“How ominous,” he said as he pivoted to look at her. “Have we gotten any more promises to attend?”

“Override is sending Breakdown and Knockout. She apologizes, but Moonracer is pregnant again and is due at the end of May, and she doesn’t want to leave her. She had invited us to the christening at the end of June--she wishes me to stand as godmother.”

“So that this child can be fostered with us when they come of age?”

“Yes, that’s likely. Airazor wrote me to let me know that she and Tigatron are coming, possibly with Cheetor. She’s not thrilled about the prospect.”

“Oh, I hate him,” Starscream bemoaned. “He really has to come?”

“It is a matter of international importance, the wedding of Caminus to Cybertron,” Windblade said. “And he’s the leader of the current parliamentary session. So yes.” She gnawed on her bottom lip. “I haven’t heard anything from Carcer yet.”

“It will be interesting if they don’t show,” Starscream observed, “considering Obsidian  _ told _ me Carcer was in favor of our marriage. Of course, that was with the idea I would die in the siege last year and leave you bereft and requiring rescue…”

“We’ll see,” Windblade said. She wouldn’t rise to the bait, but Starscream suspected she was even angrier than he was about  _ that _ particular plan. The siege has resulted in so much death, and if it had been conceived of, at least in part, to trap her in a marriage, she had no desire to carry corpses as her bridal train.

“Anything else?”

“Not at the moment,” she said. “But I think that’s enough, don’t you?”

He snorted. “I’m happy for Thunderblast,” he said after a moment. “She’s wanted this for quite some time, I think.”

“She is not as bad as I thought she was,” Windblade said begrudgingly, “but I still don’t care for her very much. However, if my mother is the reason Thunderblast hasn’t gotten pregnant, that is...uncomfortable. A person should consent to being pregnant or not.”

Starscream glanced at her finger, where the silver contraception charm glinted in the light. The storm clouds overhead were dispersing slowly and allowing the starlight to show through. “Are you going to meddle?”

“No,” Windblade sighed as she sat upright again. “I’ve never had that kind of influence and I don’t want it. Let Hot Shot worry about his potential progeny. I won’t do anything to help or hinder him.”

Starscream opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, the land  _ shuddered _ . Underneath his feet, the ice cracked and he fell through to the icy darkness of the water. He gasped at the sudden shock and breathed in water.

The water was deeper than it should have been--damn Windblade’s architectural landscaping! His shoes were weighing him down and his lungs were burning. He moved his arms, he knew how to swim, but his clothes had turned into vices.

He felt arms surround him and drag him upward.  They broke the surface and he coughed as fresh air entered his lungs. Windblade--his rescuer--kicked off toward the shore. It took only a few strokes before she was pulling him onto the grass. He spat water out of his mouth as he caught his breath, and she placed one hand on his chest and the other on his cheek. Heat poured from her touch, warming his body from the veins out. It chased the cold of the water away until he felt pleasantly warm and almost sleepy.

“What was that?” he croaked. “That wasn’t an earthquake.”

“I’m not sure. Metroplex is upset about something.”

Starscream lifted his head to see that the spring and its brook/pond were swirling and eddying, with froth landing on the grass. As he looked the garden over, one of the clouds cleared enough to show moonlight glinting off a weapon.

Oh, for Primus’ sake, not  _ again. _ He shoved Windblade aside and pushed a handful of magic at the weapon glint. He heard the crash of a weapon against ice and then the ice wrapped around the assailant. Starscream pulled his hand back and the assailant toppled from the top of the wall to the garden ground below. 

“Did you kill them?” Windblade demanded as she got to her feet. 

“Darling, assassins are the only ones I’m legally allowed to kill anymore, and sometimes you  _ need _ to kill someone.” He got to his feet and crossed the bridge. “Perhaps that not-earthquake was timed to protect either of us from that one.”

“I’m not certain Metroplex is that aware,” she objected as she trailed after him. “I think it was something else.”

“Then you go soothe the city’s fearful heart and  _ I _ will look into this,” he told her imperiously. 

She left his side to move toward the spring, and he knelt down next to the frozen assassin. They were definitely dead, but the ice-coffin had kept the fall from causing damage to the corpse. The assassin had a swollen, broken nose with scratches around their hands and wrists. “Defensive wounds,” he remarked to the corpse. “You had to subdue someone, and they didn’t care for it, did they? They tried to give as good as they got.”

“Starscream,” Windblade stood in front of him. “I’m going to need the City Watch and a burial detail. There’s a body in the sewers and Metroplex needs us to retrieve it before it releases poisons into the water supply.”

“Well,” Starscream told the corpse. “You  _ have _ been busy.”

\--

In half an hour, Windblade’s private garden was turned into an emergency HQ for Ravage, Ultra Magnus, Captain Barricade, and the on-duty members of the City Watch. Starscream was discussing the assassin in low tones with Ravage and Ultra Magnus, and Captain Barricade was talking with Windblade about how best to retrieve the body.

“Metroplex has given me the information of where exactly the body is,” she said flatly when Captain Barricade wanted her to stay behind. “No one knows the sewers and pipes of the city like I do. I can also keep the body from spreading poison once it’s retrieved. I’m going.”

Captain Barricade said, “My lady, it’s really not appropriate that you should. My team is more than capable of finding it.”

“My dear captain, the body is in the sewers and according to Metroplex has not yet begun to rot. I presume placing the body in the sewers was so that when it did begin to rot, the smell of the sewers would cover the smell of the corpse. You cannot find it without me. I am going.”

Captain Barricade sighed. “We need to retrieve the protective garb from the hospital before we send anyone traipsing through the sewers. Would you at least wait until everyone is equipped?”

“I will go with you to the hospital,” Windblade told him. “We’re going to need at least two autopsies performed tonight, and I’m not certain which surgeon is on duty to perform it.”

Captain Barricade glanced over at the fallen body of the assassin. “Yes, my lady.”

Red Alert was the one on duty, and although she protested she was not a criminal coroner, she was the next best thing available. She grudgingly allowed the quick formation of a surgery center out in the courtyard of Windblade’s garden. There was no need to make the city aware of what had gone on until there was more information to give.

Once that was arranged, Windblade and the burial detail--five officers who held her too much in awe to protest her decisions all that much--pulled on the waxen robes, full trousers, boot covers, hoods, and masks. The entire outfit was completed with glass lenses set in rubber.

“My,” Starscream strolled over as Ravage and Ultra Magnus argued in low voices, “you all look prepared to do battle with sewage monsters.”

Windblade’s scowl was lost through the mask. “It’s the same reasoning as why you had to go into quarantine,” she said, her voice muffled. “We don’t want to carry anything out that we don’t have to.”

“Oh, I know.” Starscream looked them over. “Be safe, all of you. Don’t take unnecessary risks.”

Windblade’s eyes crinkled in a slight smile, and the one of the officers hoisted the cover up off the street that hid the entrance to the sewers, and they were gone.

The scent of the sewers didn’t really hit them until they had gone down a bit and around a few corners. Metroplex was the filtration and purification system for the city, and he had rerouted the water in the pipes to help them find the corpse. It was a temporary fix--he couldn’t hold the water forever--but it would keep the body intact and capable of being found.

Windblade led the team through the maze of pipes and canals with expert precision, and when the stench hit them, she was able to manage the instinctive response to vomit. The other officers with her heaved, but none of them actually threw up.

“How did the bugger get in here?” one of the officers asked her.

“Whoever left the body in the sewers didn’t go through this way,” Windblade explained, “this is technically the back way. If we used their way, the city would see us.”

That silenced any further questions. This little adventure needed to be kept quiet. The city hadn’t lost anyone in the past year--a miracle in itself--and seeing the City Watch pull a corpse from the sewers wouldn’t do much to keep the city calm. 

It took them another ten minutes to find the junction where the corpse had been stashed. When Windblade saw it, she took a moment to control the instinctive anger that wanted to erupt at how the body had been dealt with. Her experiences last year during the siege had crystallized her opinions on the proper treatment of bodies after death.

“Let us take care of this,” one of the officers assured her. “This is our job, lady.”

Windblade took a step back and nodded. She watched as they unwrapped the shroud and took the body from the pipes to place it on the middle of the shroud. Then the ends of the shroud were wrapped around it. The body hadn’t decayed yet, but it was stiff--she guessed it had been dead for about six hours. Red Alert’s examination would tell them more. 

The officers lifted the corpse onto their shoulders, until four of them had the corpse between them. They were a kind of pallbearer, and Windblade was glad for it. Maybe the person’s murderer refused to show them any dignity after death, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t.

When they came back up in the palace courtyard, Red Alert was already working on the autopsy of the would-be assassin. She had set up a second table for the corpse they had retrieved, and Windblade went to Red Alert to see what help she could offer. 

“Whatever this one did, they were an idiot,” Red Alert informed her as Windblade pulled off the eye mask and changed her outer coverings for something that allowed her to perform surgery. “They had a broken nose and their hands and arms were cut to pieces. They tried to hurt someone, and that someone put up a fight.”

Windblade glanced at the corpse her team had retrieved. The officers were beginning to undo the shroud so that an autopsy could be done, and their hands were raw with blood and abrasions.

That didn’t mean anything. She was seeing connections that hadn’t been proven. Sister Medica would be disappointed in her. 

Red Alert caught her glance. “You think that that one was killed by this one?”

“It’s possible, but it’s pure speculation. There might not be any way to be sure.”

Red Alert snorted. “Oh please. We have ways, and you know it. But you’re right, we’ll have to check later.” She passed Windblade a scalpel, and Windblade got to work. 

It looked like Starscream’s magic had gone into the assassin’s throat and frozen their lungs and spark. It was an instantaneous death, quicker than perhaps he had intended, but she was gratified that it had been quick. 

It had also protected the body from the fall from the top of the wall. The body’s broken nose had discolored their whole face--they hadn’t even bothered to set it. 

Red Alert looked up from her perusal of the corpse’s lungs. “We’ve identified the cause of death with this one, we don’t need to do any more work.” She began to pull the skin back together and stitched it quickly with large, disrespectful stitches. The body would be burned in any case. 

Windblade moved to the second corpse. Her spark squeezed in her chest when she undid the shroud that covered the corpse’s face. They were so young, they couldn’t be older than 20. Their hands were red with blood, but the skin was unlined and soft. “I’m so sorry,” she told the body, “but this has to be done.”

She pulled their eyelids up to check their eyes. Red stains made it clear that veins in the eyes had burst, and there was red and chafed skin around their nose and mouth. “Suffocation,” she murmured to the body. “I’m so sorry. You fought them hard, didn’t you, and it wasn’t enough.”

In the tools tray, there was a pair of silver-sharp scissors, and she snipped away at their dirt-stained clothing. It was so dirty she couldn’t identify the colors, but the corpse lacked stockings and shoes. Dirt was embedded in the body’s heels--they had been dragged. 

There was no tearing, bruising, or dried blood at the quim, and the cord wasn’t chafed or bruised. The goal of the attack on them was not sexual assault.

“I know that look,” Red Alert commented as she tied up the wrappings on the assassin. “What are you confused about?”

“The clothing is dirty, but not torn,” Windblade said slowly. “There’s no sexual motive.” She searched the pockets of the dress and came up with a handful of copper and silver coins. “No theft. So why kill them and stash the body?”

“My dear, there are people who enjoy the killing,” Red Alert began, and then she frowned. “Hm.” She left the first operating table to come over. “I know this one.”

“You do?” Windblade looked down at the face. “Who is it?”

Red Alert’s face twisted. “She’s one of the student nurses. Trotula. She came with Metalhawk’s group, I believe she was one of his wards. Two weeks ago, she asked for leave to visit her brother. It was granted.”

Windblade reached for Red Alert’s arm and squeezed it. “I’m sorry.”

“What did you get into, little one?” Red Alert murmured. She reached out and ran her hand overTrotula’s hair. “Who suffocated you?” She looked at Windblade. “Let’s see if we can match her nails to the wounds on our assassin, there.”

The tables wheeled, so Windblade pushed the second table closer to the first. Red Alert picked up Trotula’s hand and stretched out the fingers. The fingernails were dirty, but when they both bent down to examine them, the dirt underneath was skin--bloodied skin.

The imprint of Trotula’s fingernails matched the scratches on the assassin’s arms. Windblade saw Red Alert blinking back tears as she carefully laid Trotula’s arm on the operating table. “I think we might be able to guess what happened,” Red Alert said after she regained control of herself. “This person,” she nodded toward the assassin, “came upon Trotula as she was returning home and used her to gain entry into the city. Then, for some reason, they killed her.”

“Or she was working with them,” Windblade pointed out, “and they killed her to tie up loose ends.”

“I don’t think she would. She was very happy to be here, to have the opportunities the city offered. I don’t think she would betray it.” Red Alert re-tied the shroud. Windblade wanted to argue, but she didn’t want to argue with Red Alert’s obvious grief. 

“What if she didn’t know she was betraying the city?” Windblade had to ask. “She might have been deceived.”

“Well, it’s not up to us.” Red Alert’s shoulders straightened as Captain Barricade and his team approached at the sign that the autopsies were done. “It’s up to them. Captain.”

“Red Alert,” he inclined his head. “My lady. Has the second body been identified?”

“It’s Trotula, one of my student nurses,” Red Alert said flatly. “But her family will need to be notified and verify the identity. I don’t--.”

“It’s all right,” Windblade said. “I can notify her family.”

Red Alert pressed her lips together before nodding. “Thank you. I need to notify the other students.” She turned to Captain Barricade. “There is sufficient physical evidence to show that Trotula was murdered by the assassin. I understand that you will need to perform an investigation and I will open my office to you and your officers to question the other students.”

“My officer Streetwise will go with you,” Captain Barricade said quietly. “I understand if you wish to be in the room while they are questioned, but we might not get honest answers from them.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Red Alert dashed a hand across her eyes. “Excuse me, captain.”

Captain Barricade returned his attention to Windblade as Streetwise trailed after Red Alert into the hospital. “I will go with you to notify her family. Who are they?”

Windblade sighed. “She was one of Metalhawk’s wards.”

“Ah.” Captain Barricade didn’t look happy about that. She could sympathize.

\--

“Lady Windblade,” Metalhawk was uneasy and tired. “And Captain Barricade. Is something wrong?”

“I am afraid so,” Windblade said. “Can we come in?”

Metalhawk’s home was more of a multifamily building than a single home. His wards had become his wards by things happening to their parents, and they lived in the upper rooms. He and his second-in-command lived in the bottom floor bedrooms, and Nightra was coming out of her room, her hair askew with the remaining traces of sleep. 

Her eyes became alert as she saw Metalhawk letting Captain Barricade and Windblade in. “What’s happened?”

“Earlier tonight,” Windblade began, and she remembered what Sister Medica had told her once.  _ Treat them gently. You’re giving them the worst news they’ve ever had, and you have to give them room for that pain. This moment is not about you or what you could’ve done. It is about them, and you must give them the respect and gravitas this moment demands. _ “Earlier tonight, we received an alert from Metroplex that a corpse had been stowed in his filtration system.” It was better than saying they had found a body in the sewers. “Due to other events occurring prior to this, both he and I did not notice it earlier. After the body was retrieved, it was identified as Trotula by Red Alert.” She swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

Nightra was very still. Metalhawk was not. “She was supposed to be away, visiting her brother.”

“It was recent,” Windblade replied. “I believe she had the chance to visit him.”

Metalhawk inhaled sharply, and Windblade prepared for the blame and recrimination. Then the fight drained from his shoulders. “What happened?”

“That is still being investigated,” Captain Barricade said quietly. “We know she fought. She was not...interfered with. We will need one or both of you to come identify her properly, and then in the morning, we will have some questions.”

Nightra looked at Metalhawk. “You go,” she rasped. “I’ll tell the others. Her brother will need to be informed, and I can write that letter. You should go.”

Metalhawk nodded. “A moment, to retrieve my coat and shoes,” he requested, and Captain Barricade inclined his head.

They were quiet as they made their way back to the courtyard. Red Alert was pulling skin and blood samples, probably to check that the blood on Trotula’s hands was actually the assassin’s blood. Windblade took a physical and emotional step back as Metalhawk went with Captain Barricade, and Red Alert joined her.

“He’ll want the body released to the family for funeral rites,” Windblade murmured. “When can that be done?”

“I need it for another half day, just to run all the last tests,” Red Alert replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “Then I can release it.”

“Right.” Windblade rubbed her face with both hands. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

“No, you can go.” Red Alert bumped her arm along Windblade’s. “You’ll need to be the one to debrief Starscream, anyway.”

“Oh, you hate me,” Windblade complained.

“No,” Red Alert said with an inappropriate amount of cheer. She kissed Windblade’s cheek. “Good night.”

Windblade stuck her tongue out at Red Alert. She needed the levity, even if telling Starscream would get rid of it entirely.

Starscream was waiting with Ravage when she got to her chambers. Ravage was on the floor, playing with Victorion, but Starscream was pacing. Mau was spread across the bed, his tail flicking as he watched Starscream with calm blue eyes. “The body in the sewers was identified as a student nurse named Trotula,” Windblade said without preamble. “Red Alert is performing tests that will declare it definitively, but it would appear that she was murdered by our assassin. Our working hypothesis is that she was somehow used by the assassin to gain access into the city and then was killed to hide it. Captain Barricade’s investigation will look into that further.” She rubbed her eyes. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

Ravage and Starscream exchanged a look. “Not at the moment,” Starscream said. He eyed her. “Go to bed before you fall down.”

She was too tired to exchange any sort of witty repartee. She just nodded and went into her dressing room to change into her sleeping clothes. When she came back out, her rooms were empty except for Victorion, and her bed was the most welcoming thing she had seen all day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your comments! I apologize for the tardiness of this chapter--when I'm writing the story as I'm posting, I don't like to post a new chapter until I finish the one I'm working on, and the characters were being so _dramatic_ with the chapter I was working on, and also work has been super busy lately.
> 
> Warnings in this chapter include death (child death), fire, and vomiting.

**Chapter 2: Enter the Firebird**

* * *

 

_ April 8, 1038 _ _   
_ _ Iacon _

Windblade stood next to Red Alert as they watched the last of Trotula’s friends wrap up their devotion to her. Now that all the speeches were over, all that was left was for Trotula’s closest family or friend to set her pyre alight. Since Trotula’s brother hadn’t been able to make it to Iacon, Metalhawk stood in for him.

When the flames caught on the dry wood at the base of the pyre, Windblade fixed her gaze on them. Gently, she urged them upwards. How long it took the corpse to burn was always the hardest part of a memorial ceremony. She would help where she could.

Starscream had not come. He had not been invited, since he didn’t know Trotula and they were still keeping the identity of Trotula’s murderer secret while Captain Barricade performed his investigation. Windblade had only attended for Red Alert, and she had no intention of attending the private reception afterwards.

Once the pyre was a smoldering pile of ashes--Windblade’s work--the group broke up. Red Alert went to her students, who were all in tears, and Windblade approached Metalhawk and Nightra. “I am deeply sorry for this,” she told them quietly. “She will be remembered.”

“Thank you for attending,” Nightra replied as she passed a handkerchief to Metalhawk. It was the most emotional Windblade had ever seen him, and her spark softened a little. “I suspect the quickness was your work?”

“She had been denied a dignity in death that I sought to restore,” Windblade said. “Is there anything we can do for you?”

Nightra nodded at the ‘we.’ “No,” she answered. “At least, not at this moment. We would just like to know who did it so that they can face justice.”

Windblade held in a flinch. “I agree. Those who commit crimes must be put on trial and treated as their crime demands.” She reached out to squeeze Nightra’s hands and to spread some warmth to her and Metalhawk before she took her leave.

She went back to her garden instead of her rooms. She needed to bury her hands in living things for a while.

The sun was starting to go down when Starscream found her there. Victorion had sprawled out on the bridge with her tail flicking in the water below, and Windblade was pulling weeds from her prized moonflowers. “How awful was it?”

Windblade tossed the weeds aside. “Is there ever a memorial service that’s joyful?”

“Heh. Fair point.” He leaned on the railing of the bridge after nudging Victorion’s back legs out out of the way. 

“I told Metalhawk and Nightra she would be remembered,” Windblade looked up at him. “Don’t make a liar of me.”

“I won’t. Barricade’s left the city to meet with her brother. He’ll be back in a few days, and that will hopefully shed some light on the timeline. Everything he’s gotten so far is that she would never betray the city, because of the opportunities she had here.” He stretched before resting his elbows back on the railing. “As for our assassin friend, there was nothing on them to show who they were affiliated with, if anyone.”

“That’s interesting,” Windblade remarked as she patted soil back over the exposed roots of her flowers. “So what’s the next move?”

“See who comes looking for them,” Starscream rolled his head back and forth until he heard his neck click. “And who’s surprised to see either of us still alive.” The look he gave her was meaningful, and she rolled her eyes.

“You were likely the target,” she said. “I haven’t made enough enemies yet, and my death--at this juncture--would not cause an international incident.”

“No, but it would cause a domestic one,” he said casually. “Still, you’re probably right. You’ve really got to work on that enemies thing. How else will you know how effective you are?”

“I hate that  _ that’s _ your metric.”

He grinned. “Come upstairs,” he told her, “and I’ll scrub your back.”

It was an attractive offer, and she took him up on it.

\--

_ April 10, 1038 _ _   
_ _ Iacon _

Lockdown chirped to his horse as they turned onto the Iacon road. They had been riding through forest for days, and the horses were exhausted, even the second ones. The road, unpaved as it was, was still a  _ road _ , and he--although not a person generally given to fancies--fancied he could hear the horses sigh with relief.

The last time he had traveled down this way, the air had been dry and thin, almost sucking the breath from your chest. The ground had been grey and tired, and each hoofbeat raised a little puff of dust with it--and that dust was damn difficult to comb out of a horse’s hide.

Now the land was lush and green. The heads of some kind of grain were already poking through the dark brown soil, and he heard birdsong and the buzz of insects over the soft whispers of the plants moving in the wind.

So it was true. Somehow Starscream had broken the curse.

Well, that didn’t matter. They were on the trail of a notorious personage, as his boss had liked to put it, and whether the land was green and growing didn’t matter in the slightest to their mission.

As they progressed down the Iacon road, shapes began to assert themselves in the lines of green plants--peasants in dark brown robes and head cloths to protect themselves from the sun. His casual glance told him their fabric was of low quality, chosen for its hardiness instead of its comfort, and he he urged the horse into a gentle trot. 

Instead, as the walls of the city came into view, one of the peasants rose and moved to stand in the middle of the road. Their appearance threw him for a minute--they were wearing a pair of fancy boots--but he shouted, “Get out of the way,” and nudged his mount to go faster. Better scare them off.

His horse stopped. Lockdown went to kick the horse into motion, but he felt a slight sizzle on the heel of his boots and his spurs dropped down onto the ground with an undignified  _ clink _ . His team had slowed when his horse had stopped, and he saw  _ they _ were still wearing their spurs. What had happened to them? He had just renewed the anti-rust spells two nights ago.

“State your business,” the peasant called. 

The demand infuriated him. He had never bowed his head to a peasant in his life, and he wouldn't start then. He squeezed his knees, and the horse started to walk forward, enough to bring the peasant’s features into focus.

He frowned a little at the white spiral tattoos on their face. That set off a small bell in his memory. The tattoos meant something, didn’t they?

“State your business,” the peasant repeated, in accented Cybertronian. 

Lockdown put it out of his mind. The tattoos were probably religious. “Who are you to demand me to state my business?” he growled. 

The peasant tilted their head. “The vanguard,” they replied, with a slightly thicker accent that time. It almost sounded like they were hiding laughter. “Trust me when I say the guards will open for you or not based on my recommendation.”

Was the peasant laughing at him? He had the temptation to really give them something to laugh at. His riding crop was at his side of the saddle, and he wrapped his hand around it in an effort to control his temper. 

“Cap,” one of his team whispered. He turned in the saddle to look at them. “They don’t use peasant talk.”

So they hadn’t. Lockdown turned forward again and reconsidered. “I am the bounty hunter Lockdown. I am in pursuit of retrieving a murderer, Crackshot.”

The peasant frowned. “A bounty hunter? Have you cleared your profession with the law enforcement of Iacon?”

“Look,” and Lockdown’s temper was back, “the last time I checked, Iacon didn’t  _ have _ law enforcement, just Starscream’s whims. Get out of my way!”

The peasant ignored that. “Things have changed in the last year,” they observed. “Do you have an affidavit?”

Primus,  _ more _ legal talk. Lockdown scrambled in his saddlebags as angrily as he could to come up with the affidavit and sketch of Crack Shot. He passed it onto the peasant with clear impatience. “Well? Does that suit?” he demanded.

The peasant took their time in examining the affidavit and the sketch. The affidavit hadn’t been signed by Lockdown’s boss--”Too obvious,”--but it was still a valid search-and-arrest form.

The peasant lingered over the sketch, eyes narrowing. Lockdown’s back straightened. So Crackshot _had_ been through here. That was a look of recognition. When he reached down to take the affidavit back, the peasant whisked it out of his grasp. “I will be happy to present this to Ultra Magnus on your behalf,” they said.

“And Ultra Magnus listens to you, does he?”

The peasant smiled. “For many things.” Then their eyes narrowed. “I will thank you to leave now.”

Lockdown opened his mouth to argue, but to his surprise and rising anger, his horse turned and started to walk back the way they came, and so did the horses of his team. He generally made it a point not to get into a scuffle with someone whose magic he didn’t understand, but he seethed and made plans to get his revenge. 

Once the horses stopped walking on their own, Lockdown dismounted to examine his boots. His spurs had been melted off--how was that possible? The heat required to melt the connecting links between the spurs and the boot brace would have burned him, but he was unharmed and the spurs were gone.

“What do we do now, boss?”

Lockdown looked at his team, and then down the road. “We wait,” he decided. “We know a fancy wedding is happening soon. That means caravans of people we can infiltrate. Let Crackshot run amok for a few days. We’ll get him in the end.”

\--

Ultra Magnus looked up when Princess Windblade slipped into a chair in front of his desk. “I have a question.”

Ultra Magnus glanced down at the legislation Starscream had left on his desk and then back up at her. “Oh?”

“Have you heard of someone called Lockdown?”

Ultra Magnus scowled. “He was such a violent and cruel person he was drummed out of the Decepticons. The fact that he was stripped of his status is the only thing that saved him from being hunted by the Decepticon Justice Division--for once, a real pity--and as soon as he was officially a free agent, he took work wherever he could for anyone who would pay him.”

“So you would not support his extralegal activities searching for someone?”

“Absolutely not,” Ultra Magnus snapped. Then he thought about it. “Why?”

“Because I just turned him away from the gate,” the princess replied.

He stared at her. Then, before he could formulate any other response, he stood up, went to the door, and called, “I need a runner to Lord Starscream,  _ now _ . He needs to come here.”

“Yes sir!” one of the runners in the antechamber said, and left.

When he sat back down, the princess looked at him quizzically. “Why do we need Starscream?”

“If Lockdown was turned away from the city,” Ultra Magnus grunted, “then we have a problem.”

“He  _ was _ turned away from the city. Did I do wrong?”

“No, absolutely not,” Ultra Magnus assured her. “Lockdown is a despicable person that we don’t want in the city, but he’s stubborn and will likely attempt to find a way. Is there a way to ward the city against him?”

“Not without some of his hair or blood,” the princess replied with regret. “Specific wards have to be tied to the individual.”

Ultra Magnus sighed fractionally. “It was a hope, however vain it was.”

“You wanted me?” Starscream stuck his head in.

“Please, sit,” Ultra Magnus told him. “There has been an unwelcome development.”

As Starscream sat, the princess said, “In more ways than one.” From her robe pocket, she drew out two pieces of folded parchment and placed them on the desk. 

Ultra Magnus picked up the document that contained what appeared to be a search affidavit, and his eyes scanned the words until they arrived at the signature. As he considered it, the princess said, “This morning, Metroplex alerted me to a group of heavily armed riders approaching the city. When I intercepted them on the main road, the leader identified themself as ‘Lockdown,’ a bounty hunter in pursuit of someone named Crackshot.” She pushed the sketch toward Starscream. “Does he look familiar?”

Starscream took the sketch. “Well, well. Our would-be assassin.”

“Lockdown then demanded entrance into the city to pursue his quarry. I refused him.”

Starscream’s head came up. “And he said his name was  _ Lockdown? _ ”

“Yes,” the princess said with some confusion. “His face was heavily scarred, from what I could see, and he wore a metal gauntlet on his right hand.” She sniffed. “He’s one bad wound away from death.”

“Well, that sounds like Lockdown,” Starscream said. “How did he take it when you refused him? Did he know who you were?”

“No, I did not identify myself,” Princess Windblade replied. “He believed me to be a peasant. His horse alerted me when he would have attacked me, so I asked the horses to go away. They went. Oh, and I melted his spurs off his boots.”

Ultra Magnus and Starscream both stared at her, and then without ceremony, Starscream jumped from his seat, dragged her upright, and dipped into an all-too-dramatic kiss. Right in front of Ultra Magnus!

The princess squeaked, but then melted into the kiss. 

When it went longer than five seconds, Ultra Magnus cleared his throat. “Really,” he remarked.

Starscream released the princess and deposited her back in her chair. Her cheeks were a brilliant red, and she dodged Ultra Magnus’ eyes. Good. At least one of them had a sense of shame. “Aw, come on,” Starscream told Ultra Magnus. “Don’t act like you didn’t want to kiss her after that.”

“Um,” the princess said.

“I can assure you that I did not,” Ultra Magnus informed Starscream, and then he looked at the princess. “But that is rather...amazing, so thank you.”

“I really did do that,” she protested.

Starscream draped himself back in the other chair, despite the hard back and lack of armrests. “Oh, we believe you. That’s what makes it so enjoyable. Lockdown is a mercenary who delights in violence--and it’s me saying that!--so anyone that robbed him of his dignity is just marvelous.”

“But there is a concern to that as well,” Ultra Magnus cautioned when it appeared Starscream would go off on a tangent, “because you are recognizable, my lady, and with all of the expected traffic for the wedding, it would be easy for him to infiltrate the city. It will not take him long to identify you.”

The princess set her jaw. “I would like to see him try to do anything to me.”

From the look on Starscream’s face, another kiss was incoming, and Ultra Magnus held up his hand. “That can wait,” he told Starscream. “When you’re outside my office.”

Starscream pouted.

Ultra Magnus turned back to the princess. “When he has the ability to do so, he does not attack where you can see him coming. Additionally, if he is in pursuit of our assassin…” Ultra Magnus tapped the sketch of ‘Crackshot.’ “I would like to know who sent him.”

“Let me see that affidavit,” Starscream snatched it from the desk before Ultra Magnus could hand it to him. Starscream was  _ so rude. _ When he saw who signed it, he laughed.

The princess straightened. “What? What is it?”

“Ultra Magnus, do you recognize this name?” Starscream passed him back the affidavit.

Ultra Magnus looked at the signature again. “Fast Shuffle. It sounds familiar.”

“That would be because it’s one of Swindle’s aliases,” Starscream informed him. He sighed a little. “This is partially our fault. I had him arrested eighteen months ago for gem smuggling. I thought he was using gems to fund Bruticus, but despite Ravage’s best efforts, we never got anything useful from him. Thundercracker ended up releasing him and forbidding him from the city as we were preparing for the siege. We couldn’t spare the guards.” 

“You released him?” The princess asked. “I thought you were all but sure.”

“There wasn’t enough evidence,” Starscream shrugged. “And I have been informed I can’t just kill people anymore.”

“Yes, that is preferable,” Ultra Magnus said gravely.

“So Swindle’s back to his old games,” Starscream mused. “And I suspect that Swindle isn’t the real force behind this. He’s a bit player, he plays for himself. This implies a larger game.”

“Could it be Bruticus?” Princess Windblade inquired. “Now that the Autobots are no longer a factor?”

“Unclear,” Ultra Magnus decided, “but I’ll pass along the sketch of Lockdown to the gate sentries. Lockdown cannot be permitted to enter the city. And my lord, I would recommend that the princess have more of a guard than Captain Chromia.”

“No,” the princess said.

“Yes, I can arrange it,” Starscream yawned. “I’m sure Captain Barricade will have some suggestions. My dear, stop making such outraged faces. You knew this was coming.” His shoulders straightened. “Is there anything else?”

“No,” the princess said. “I just wanted to alert you.”

“That’s fine.” Starscream flapped a hand at her, and after another sour look, she left. Once she was gone, Starscream leaned forward. “What do  _ you _ think this means?”

“I’m not certain that Onslaught is aware of the ramifications of interfering with Iacon’s internal politics. I also do not believe he is aware of what you and the princess have become to the city. If he did…” Ultra Magnus sighed. “He’s very intelligent, but moreover, he’s people-smart. If Lockdown returns to him and lets him know what is happening here, I think we could expect Onslaught to come to the city himself.”

“Well,” Starscream said, his eyes glinting with the potential challenge. “Wouldn’t that be  _ interesting. _ ”

\--

_ April 13, 1038 _ _   
_ _ Iacon _

Lightbright exited her carriage with a scowl for the guard who had offered their hand to assist her disembarking. The city still showed signs of last year’s conflict, from the scorch-marked walls to the piles of stone out of the main thoroughfares, but the city was pulsing with life that she knew instinctively was Windblade’s work.

She had suffered vertigo when the carriage had crossed into the city. Metroplex’s presence was so much stronger and vibrant than Caminus’, and he was _aware_ of her. Caminus was almost never aware of anyone. How could Windblade withstand the pressure of Metroplex’s presence? Lightbright was struggling under the weight of it.

Windblade was waiting for her at the top of the stairs, Chromia behind her. There were two other people standing with her, people Lightbright didn’t know. As soon as Lightbright cleared the carriage, Windblade pattered down the stairs to throw her arms around Lightbright. Lightbright hugged her back, and for a long moment, they held each other with all the strength they had.

After that moment, with reluctance on both their parts, they separated. Windblade reached out and pushed one of Lightbright’s loose curls behind her ear. “You completed your training!”

Lightbright beamed. “I got my full tattoos! Mother did them herself.”

Windblade’s face fell slightly, but she rallied. “That’s excellent. Before you tell me all the news that I so desperately long to hear, I should introduce you to these two.” She led Lightbright up the stairs to the two strangers. “Lightbright, this is Lord Thundercracker and Commander Marissa Faireborn. Lord Thundercracker is Starscream’s brother. Lord Thundercracker, Commander Faireborn, this is my sister, Princess Lightbright of Caminus.”

Lord Thundercracker bowed, as did Commander Faireborn. Lightbright noted that Lord Thundercracker bowed more deeply than the Commander. “What the princess fails to mention is that I am married to Lord Thundercracker,” Commander Faireborn said in a low, alto voice. 

“I didn’t want your identity to be subject to your husband’s,” Windblade protested, but there was a glint of laughter in her eyes.

“I am more than a wife, that’s true,” Commander Faireborn replied, with the same laughter. “I am grateful for your determination to recognize my identity.”

Why were they joking about this? Lightbright wondered. Were they trying to show how close they were? It seemed a little strange.

“It’s delightful to meet you,” Lord Thundercracker told her, ignoring Windblade and his wife. “I have heard a great deal about you.” He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to the top of it. 

He was handsome, and Lightbright enjoyed his kiss on her hand. She might have been married, but she could still  _ look _ . “All good, I hope.”

Lord Thundercracker’s eyes twinkled with good humor as he straightened. “Mostly.” He looked to Windblade and Commander Faireborn. “My lady…?”

“I thought I would take Princess Lightbright to her rooms to drop off her luggage and then to show her the palace,” Windblade said smoothly. There was a smile hiding at the corners of her mouth, which startled Lightbright. Windblade had never been so quick to smile, before. “I can show her the city tomorrow.”

“That sounds good,” Lightbright said quickly.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Lord Thundercracker said, “we’ll see you at supper.”

Once he and Commander Faireborn were gone, Lightbright looked to Windblade. “I was expecting Starscream to greet me.”

“He’s tied up in a presentation with the Council,” Windblade told her as she tucked Lightbright’s hand into the crook of her elbow. “They decided they could live without sowing projections just this once.” She leaned forward and kissed Lightbright’s cheek. “He’ll see you at supper.”

“Right,” Lightbright said, a little dubious, but she allowed herself to be led inside.

Whatever she had been expecting, the palace was not it. It had once been a building of great and gilded splendour, but no longer. It was now a utilitarian place, but she could see Windblade’s hand in how it was painted a soft cream and the number of hangings. “You want to live someplace so cold?”

“It seems unnecessary to spend money on frivolities when the city still needs to be rebuilt,” Windblade said, without a hint of chastisement in her tone, but Lightbright felt it anyway. She had seen the scorched walls and piles of dusty stone, but she hadn’t thought about it and what it meant. “When the economy is more stable, I can do more here. Starscream hates it too and wants more Vosian style decorations, but nothing survived the siege of Vos that we’ve been able to find.”

Once again, Lightbright felt the sting of an unsaid slap. Windblade had been here, doing important work,  _ necessary _ work, and she had had to go without the luxuries that Lightbright hadn’t even thought were luxuries, like curtains and rugs. 

Windblade was unaware of Lightbright’s turmoil as she led her sister through the long hall. “We have greenhouses through here, and the family quarters are on the third floor. You’ll have rooms there as long as you stay here. The guests for the wedding will be in the guest quarters, of course, on the fourth floor.”

“The fourth floor. Right,” Lightbright repeated.

“And I know you’re tired, but before I show you to your rooms, I’d like to introduce you to Metroplex,” Windblade said, “I’ve told him you’re coming.”

Lightbright’s mouth went dry. “Oh, that’s--kind.”

“He wanted to meet you,” Windblade chattered as they went through the maze of the palace, “and since you are blood of my blood, you don’t need to go through the introduction ritual!”

“Great,” Lightbright said.

Windblade beamed at her, and then they were passing into an open-air hallway that bordered a lush garden. Lightbright wasn’t able to enjoy it, since the full force of Metroplex’s presence slammed into her and knocked her to her knees. She couldn’t hear Windblade’s appalled murmurs, but she did feel her older sister carefully lifting her upright. 

The ringing in Lightbright’s ears died enough to hear Windblade asking,  “Are you all right?”

“How can you stand it?” she managed. She wiped her face and found blood on her face. Her nose was bleeding. Before she could dig for a handkerchief, Windblade offered her one, and Lightbright took it and pressed it to her nose. When she spoke again, her voice was nasal and thick. “He’s so strong!”

“Er, well, about that,” Windblade rubbed the back of her neck, “circumstances dictated that I drink some of his water last year.”

Lightbright stared at her older sister. That would severely incapacitate any cityspeaker, and it could even kill them. What had Windblade been  _ doing? _

“Like I said, circumstances demanded it,” Windblade said with flushed cheeks. “It does mean we communicate better than before. Come on.” She towed Lightbright deeper into the garden, off the paved path to the softness of the grass. 

The waters of the spring burbled and sparkled in the morning light. Brightly-flashing silver fish swam in the depths of the water--Metroplex allowed fish to piss, shit, and fuck in his springs?!--and the thunder of Metroplex’s presence banged in her head. 

It was the first time Lightbright realized her sister was more powerful than she was. She didn’t like it. Jealousy cramped low in her stomach, and with a monumental effort--and Metroplex helped, a little--she pushed it away. Windblade was bound to Cybertron now. She had paid a heavy price for the power she held.

She didn’t need Windblade to nudge her to the water’s edge. When Lightbright dipped her left hand in the water (her right still held the handkerchief to her nose), the waters warmed and fizzed around her skin, and then, mercifully, the overbearing drum of Metroplex’s presence receded. He recognized she was related to Windblade, but cities did not fully understand ‘siblings.’ The closest cities had to family were other cities, and it wasn’t family as non-cities understood it.

Metroplex delved a little bit deeper, and she recoiled when she felt his touch in her mind. She hadn’t known cities could do that without her express consent, and there was a buzz of amusement in her mind that wasn’t hers. You don’t know what we are capable of, it seemed to be telling her, and then the presence found the emotions she had desperately tried to push away. It chilled and pulled away from her.

Windblade knelt next to her. “Hello,” she told the waters. “This is my sister. Please be gentle with her--Caminus moves much more slowly than you do.”

The water stilled enough to reflect Windblade’s face, and then it bubbled and flared crimson lights. Windblade laughed with delight, another sound Lightbright wasn’t used to hearing from her. “I know, but she was trained with Caminus and is used to Caminus. She will get more flexible with experience.” Windblade glanced at her, the traces of laughter still present in the slight lines around her mouth and eyes. “He thinks you’ve been dreadfully sheltered,” she explained. “And he loves Caminus and worries for him.”

“You got all of that from the lights?”

Windblade laughed again. “He and I know each other very well at this point,” Windblade said fondly. “He communicates with me in all sorts of ways.”

“Does he affect Starscream like this?”

Windblade made a face. “No, not exactly. Starscream can feel him and they talk, but it’s more like Starscream tells Metroplex what he thinks Metroplex should be doing and Metroplex considers it.”

Lightbright’s jaw dropped. “He tells a city what to do?!”

“It’s a very different relationship,” Windblade said easily as she sat back on the grass. She pulled off her stockings and slippers to put her feet in the water, and she smiled slightly when the silver fish swam forward to nibble on her toes. “Metroplex understands exactly who Starscream is, and, hm, indulges him. If Starscream oversteps, Metroplex has a way of letting him know.”

“You know the priests would accuse you of heresy for what you’ve allowed,” Lightbright pointed out reasonably. “They think the cities should be venerated and kept holy.”

“There’s all sorts of ways to venerate someone,” Windblade replied, with a hint of warning in her voice, “and this is what Metroplex wants. Who am I to deny him that?”

Lightbright swallowed and decided not to say anything else, when she could feel Metroplex’s disdain growing for her and her nose had yet to stop bleeding. If she continued to criticize Windblade, or if Metroplex considered her criticizing Windblade, there was no telling what an overprotective city would do to protect her.

And for another moment, Lightbright’s spark beat with longing and pure jealousy. Caminus was so remote he was barely aware he had cityspeakers, let alone their individual identities. Yet somehow Windblade had worked magic and a city had fallen in love with her. It wasn’t fair. 

Windblade tilted her face toward the sun, and the grass rustled over her hands with affection. It had to be affection. There was no wind, and the grass wasn’t responding to Lightbright at all. “I had a hard time this winter,” Windblade said absently as one of the willows draped a string of leaves over Windblade’s shoulders. “But now that everything is green again, I’m better.” She sighed. “I wish there was someone with my magic that I could just--talk to, to find out what’s normal and what’s me.”

Lightbright felt a stab of remorse. She had keep reminding herself of the cost of Windblade’s power: no mentors, no guides, just her and her creativity. No other witch had so little. Even Starscream had the notes of past death witches, even if they were evil and crazy. 

“Maybe your magic responds like the living world,” Lightbright offered after a moment. “You’re dormant when it is.”

“The living world is never dormant, not entirely,” Windblade disagreed quietly, “but it’s better than some of the ideas I’ve had.” She didn’t elaborate, choosing instead to lean all the way back onto her back. Her skin glowed in the sunlight, turning her a creamy gold. Lightbright inhaled deeply, and when she had a handle on her witch sight, she opened her eyes to look at her sister.

She had never been able to see the life magic that ran through Windblade’s veins, but the reflections--the reflections she could see. The grass, trees, and flowers shimmered crimson, and the reflection played against Windblade’s skin, turning it bright to her magical vision.

Had Windblade been this powerful last year? She didn’t think so.

The breeze picked up, and the willow branch got tangled in the coiled braid at the nape of Windblade’s neck. She squawked when she tried to sit up and couldn’t, and Lightbright giggled before crawling over to her sister’s side and helping to unweave the overly fond willow from her hair.

Then she stopped.

“Lightbright?” Windblade asked as her hands went to her hair to pick out leaves from the braids. “What’s wrong?”

“Your hair. It’s-- _ blue _ .”

“Well, not all of it,” Windblade said as she finally detached the branch from her hair.

“That’s not funny,” Lightbright said unsteadily. “That only happens when you’ve gone through major trauma. What happened?”

“It wasn’t major trauma,” Windblade corrected, “just exposure to spark energy and I didn’t have a choice.”

“Just exposure to spark energy?!” Lightbright thought she was going to faint. No  _ wonder _ Windblade had no idea how strong Metroplex’s presence was! Her senses had been scrambled! “How did that happen?!”

Windblade pulled her hair from Lightbright’s unresisting hands and turned to face her. Now that Lightbright was looking for it, she could see how Windblade had twisted the electric blue strands--the same color as spark energy, the same color of her eyes--in with the heavier dark brown-black strands until the brown nearly concealed the blue completely. It makes people nervous, Lightbright realized, even if they don’t know why. 

Solus, it makes  _ me _ nervous,  _ because _ I know why.

“An Autobot thought it would be a good idea to raise a dead Prime,” Windblade said shortly. “I had to put him down again. This was a side-effect.”

“Hell of a side effect. What has it done to your power?”

Windblade’s eyes slid to the side. “We’re--not entirely sure yet.”

“Bull _ shit _ .”

Windblade’s eyes snapped back to hers, and for the first time, she looked angry. “I got through it unharmed,” she said through her teeth. “Except for this change. I got off lightly, in comparison to others. I do not know what the long-term effects are. I do not know why I have not been harmed by exposure to a known volatile energy.”

Windblade stopped using contractions when she was deeply angry, which meant she had been angry earlier but hiding it. Lightbright was completely poleaxed--something had happened to change her sister, and she couldn’t read Windblade anymore. 

“Sorry,” Lightbright muttered. “I just--know the stories.”

“I know the same stories,” Windblade said. She stood up. “You’re likely tired. Let me show you to your rooms.”

Lightbright got up too. Whatever happened, she wasn’t going to get more information right now, and she needed time to digest what she had been given. Spark energy exposure? Mother was going to be furious.

\--

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Windblade said plaintively to Chromia. “Her questions were not exactly uncalled for. I’ve been raised on the stories of people who’ve been exposed to spark energy, just like she was. Why am I so angry with her?”

“Lift up your arms,” Chromia told her, and Windblade did so. She was covered in mud, and she couldn’t peel off her outer robe by herself. “I’ve seen this, in border veterans. I’ve told you I’ve seen this.”

“I was hoping I’d be over it by now,” Windblade sighed, managing not to grimace as Chromia peeled the sodden robe off her body. “I mean, I’m not pissed at Starscream anymore. Not specifically, not since that huge fight we had last fall. I can always be pissed at him generally.”

“I will tell you what the healers told me--again.” With a wince, Chromia dropped the dirty cloth into a waiting basket. One of the launderers had water magic and could get just about any mess out of cloth. Chromia made a mental note to tip them from Windblade’s cache. “You’ve been through something traumatic. It changes how your mind perceives the world. Lightbright hasn’t been through that, so you get angry at her because she doesn’t understand.” 

“But it’s petty to get angry at her for that,” Windblade groused as Chromia helped her out of her pants. “And it’s  _ rude _ .”

“The mind does not always work logically. As for concern over spark energy, I have my own thoughts about that.”

“Well?” Windblade demanded once the worst of the muddy clothes were off her skin. Her under-robes were stained and dirty, but they weren’t pouring mud. Thank  _ Solus _ .

“I think you are possibly the only person in the world who could be exposed to spark energy without major adverse reaction,” Chromia told her. The ties to the under-robe were had dried, and they were unwilling to be unwound. Chromia shrugged and cut them with her belt knife. Windblade could sew on new ties later, once they were clean. “Your magic has become more powerful--I’ve noticed it--but I’m not sure if it’s because of the spark energy or Metroplex. We might never have that answer. But life magic is magic of the spark, isn’t that right? So why should spark energy harm you?”

“Great,” Windblade said. “One more way I’m a freak.”

Chromia tapped Windblade’s forehead. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she ordered. “It’s a useless exercise, only satisfying in small doses. You have been complaining for over an hour. That time is up. Go take a bath.”

Windblade affected a sarcastic bow. “Yes, milady.”

Windblade’s cap had protected her braids from the worst of the mud, but she still had to comb it out and rinse it with warm water. She steamed it dry as she stood in the tub and scrubbed the rest of the mud off her skin. What was the worth of being a fire witch if she couldn’t dry her hair quickly?

She had cleaned herself off and put on clean clothes when Chromia said, a little too loudly, “Windblade, there’s a fire in the city.”

Windblade rushed to the window. There was a thin column of fire rising from the artisan district. “Chromia, my bag.”

“I already have it.”

They left the palace at a run. All through last summer, fall, and winter, there had been no fires. Everyone had been so careful. Now there was a fire, so soon after a would-be assassin? No, she would drive herself mad to think like that. It was likely just a coincidence. 

Starscream was already at the fire when they got there. Windblade took a better look at the building and nearly cursed. It was one of the carpentry houses, full of stains, varnishes, wood, and oil. Things that burned quickly, and hot. 

“The building can’t be saved,” Starscream shouted in her ear over the roaring flames. “We’ve been reinforcing the anti-fire charms on the buildings beside it.”

“The other buildings aren’t in danger,” she shouted back. “Where’s the healer’s tent?”

Starscream pointed, but before she could move there, they both heard screams and then some of the carvers were running to them. “We forgot,” one of them was marked with soot and breathless, but still managed to get out, “we were so panicked, I can’t understand it--.”

“The nursery,” the second one interrupted, “it’s on the second floor. The babies of those of us on the evening shift are in there.”

“How many?” Windblade demanded, yanking a ribbon from her pocket and using it to tie her hair back.

“At least four,” the level-headed carver told her. “On the second floor.”

Windblade turned to go, but Starscream grabbed her arm. “You can’t be serious,” he said for her ears alone. “That’s practically a firestorm.”

“I’m the only one who’s immune to fire, and I have the best chance of getting those children out,” she snapped back. “Let go.”

He did. “Don’t be stupid.”

She reached up and cupped his cheek, and then she ran into the burning building.

The fire recognized her as part of itself, and so it left her alone as she scrambled up the stairs to the second floor. She knew the layout of this building--she had assisted the master of this carpentry house in connecting it to Metroplex’s pipes and she didn’t hesitate to turn right at the first landing on the stairs. The nursery was at the end of the hall, and the door was closed.

She placed a hand on the door and was relieved when it wasn’t hot. She jerked it open and swung into the room--and into the smoke that made her vision hazy. She coughed, her eyes streaming, and she spread her magic out in the room, looking for the babies. It was more reliable than her eyes. 

The smoke was getting worse, and flickers of orange at the corners of the room told her that the fire was pushing downwards into areas it hadn’t claimed yet. She needed to find the babies and get out before the roof went.

Where  _ were _ they? She stumbled to one of the cribs, and found why her magic wasn’t finding them.

When something grabbed her foot, she opened her mouth to scream and breathed in smoke. She bent nearly double as she coughed, which brought her down to eye-level with the toddler on the floor. Their face was soot-streaked, and they couldn’t even cry. Once Windblade got her breath back, she scooped up the toddler. “Hold on to me,” she told the toddler, who promptly wrapped their arms around her neck and buried their face into her shoulder. She needed to check all of the beds, just in case.

She was about to give up hope when she saw one of the infants move feebly in their crib. She swooped down and picked them up, carefully, until they were tucked on her other side. She couldn’t run out, not with two children holding on to her, and the fire was across the stairs.

For a moment, she felt a pang of real fear before she steeled herself. She  _ would _ get them out.

Navigating a hallway when smoke was obscuring her vision made her grateful for the hours she had spent drafting and then connecting this building to the sewage system. She could hear the beams above her groaning--that wasn’t good--but she moved carefully. If she fell, she could hurt the toddler and infant far worse than the fire. 

She was on the stairs when the fire finally noticed her--or rather, it noticed the children she carried. It roared at her, demanding to have them. It had been brought to this place, and everything in it was the fire’s to destroy.

“Not these two,” she said through gritted teeth. “These two are alive and they belong to me.”

The fire at the foot of the stairs crackled angrily. It stood between her and the exit. It would let her leave, it could not harm her, but for her survival, it demanded a toll.

Windblade lost her temper, and the fire reared away from her when she unleashed her hold on her own magic. “You can have everything in this building that is dead,” she ordered the fire, “but the living belong to  _ me _ . Try me, and I will suppress you so quickly it will seem like a snow-death is a mercy.” 

All fire, regardless of its size, feared the suffocation that came with snow. The fire’s crackling died down into less of a roar as it considered her. She wasn’t sure she had the strength  _ to _ suppress this fire--feeding on the wood, paint, and varnishes had given it power, but what mattered was whether the fire believed she could.

Finally, it agreed, and it split enough to let her pass through. As soon as she passed the threshold, the fire roared up behind her to delight in the feast. The air was too cold to her scalded lungs, and even her skin felt cold. No wonder. Being in the middle of a firestorm had a tendency to change up what her body thought as its base temperature.

A nurse came forward to take the children, but Windblade took a step back. “I need Starscream.”

“Here,” he said as he joined them. “What do you need?”

“I think there’s soot in the throat,” she told him, “can you feel for it? I can’t, because it’s not living.”

“It will be easier with the children on the ground,” he plucked the toddler from her arm so that she could place the infant a little more gently down. The nurse already had a blanket down for them. 

He carefully opened the toddler’s mouth, who gasped in air and promptly started to scream. “I know,” he told the toddler, “it’s dreadfully embarrassing. There we are.” He crooked his fingers, and a small damp black lump flew from the toddler’s throat. Starscream directed it back into the fire. The toddler coughed and looked very surprised before continuing to scream. “Typical,” Starscream sighed.

To Windblade’s magical sight, clearing the toddler’s airway was bringing life back into the toddler’s airways. Their skin took on a healthier flush, and she hid a sigh of relief.

The infant was harder to bring back. The soot had clogged their nose and throat, and since their body was so much smaller and delicate, Starscream had to work out the soot much more carefully. It gave Windblade enough time to realize she was shivering, but finally, the infant was crying with healthy lungs too. 

Parents came forward as the nurse picked up the infant and Windblade hoisted the toddler onto her hip. Starscream looked her up and down, and he unbuttoned his coat. “Are these only two…?” one of the carvers whispered.

“I’m so sorry,” Windblade told them quietly, and meant it. “The rest were already gone.”

The carver seemed to crumble from the inside, and Windblade passed the still-squalling toddler to Starscream so she could hug the carver. The other parents who had lost children began to weep, and Windblade tucked as many of them as she could hold into her arms. 

Something made her look at Starscream, who had his arms full of two other crying parents. The look he gave her was ‘ _ help me _ ,’ but she shook her head at him. It wasn’t a bad thing for their people to think they could go to him for comfort. 

The spontaneous expression of grief did not take long to wrap up. The parents of the dead children collected themselves and helped each other to get back home. The parents of the toddler and the infant wept with gratitude as they reclaimed their children, and before Windblade could go find whatever guard was on duty, Starscream stopped her by placing the robe on her shoulders.

She glanced down at herself and almost laughed with hysteria. “When I told the fire it could have the dead, it took me at my word,” she mumbled as she brushed off the last of the soot that had previously been her clothes. The soot had held up to crying parents, but it was giving up the ghost. 

The coat was heavy and it hurt her skin, but she tried to ignore it. “I should,” she interrupted herself with a dry cough that went on so long she was almost afraid of dying, “should--.”

“You are going to see the healer,” Starscream said. “Now.”

“But--,” she tried, but Starscream glared at her and she quieted. It was nice to pass off the responsibility. She didn’t have to be everything to everyone all the time. Once she wasn’t trying to phrase her observations in her mind to pass along to a member of the City Watch, she could focus on how her whole body hurt, not just where the coat rested. The soles of her feet were alone in  _ not _ hurting, but the tops of her feet were scorched smooth.

“Fire must’ve taken off the top few layers of skin,” she mumbled. 

“Did you know that would happen?” Starscream demanded.

“No,” she said, and coughed. Nothing was coming up, but she expected that. Smoke inhalation was awful. 

Red Alert looked up to meet them in the hastily-erected healer’s tent. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a night off?” she inquired before patting one of the empty beds. “Is she dying?”

Starscream reared up. “Like I would allow that to happen.”

“Well then, she can wait.” Red Alert bustled off to where one of the original carpenters was waiting for her, covered in a thick green ointment that Starscream could smell from the opposite side of the tent. Windblade put her head in her hands as she tried to catch her breath. It hurt to cough, and that wasn’t a good sign.

Starscream placed a hand on her upper back, and coolness spread from his touch. She managed a tiny smile for him; learning how to manipulate cold like she manipulated heat had been one of the things he had struggled the most to master, and she was proud of how he had labored at it. He wasn’t used to things taking so much time to control.

The coolness spread through his coat and made it easier for the cotton-lined coat to rest on her skin. She sighed, and broke into another fit of coughing.

One of the nurses finished cleaning a burn and came to see them. “You went into the fire,” the nurse asked, and Starscream rolled his eyes. Practically the whole city had seen Windblade run into the conflagration. “Any injuries?”

“Just this cough,” Windblade rasped, “and skin sensitivity.”

The nurse pulled over a screen and glanced at Starscream. Starscream folded his arms and gave her his flattest look. He wasn’t leaving. He had seen everything before. The nurse looked to Windblade, who was too exhausted to venture an opinion. “May I take your coat off?”

Windblade nodded and pushed the fabric off. Soot streaked her chest and upper thighs, and her feet were filthy. The nurse took Windblade’s pulse and listened to her breathing, with coughs, and then performed a simple examination of Windblade’s skin.

“It appears to be more like a sunburn than a fire burn,” the nurse said finally. “I will get Red Alert to be certain, but in the meantime, you need to take the anti-smoke potion.”

Windblade pulled a face. “I brewed it and I still can’t stand it,” she muttered to Starscream. In a louder voice, she said, “Can I take it back to my chambers and take it there? It is debilitating.”

“But you have to take it,” the nurse warned. 

“I’ll make sure she takes it,” Starscream told the nurse in his loftiest voice. “Is there anything else I should know about this particular potion?”

“Yes--make sure she’s at a basin,” the nurse said. Windblade recognized the mischief in their eyes--clearly Starscream didn’t know what the potion was for. “She will throw up.”

Starscream’s eyes widened before he affected coolness yet again. “How soon can Red Alert come see her?”

“She’s next on the list,” the nurse promised. “I’ll go get that potion.”

“Is the throwing up really necessary?” Starscream murmured to Windblade once the nurse had left. 

“Yes,” she said, and coughed again. This time, Starscream held her upright to keep her from falling off the bed. Her whole body ached with it. She had overextended herself in keeping the fire back when it was that strong. Tomorrow was going to be awful.

He decided not to press her further, not when coughing made her so tired. It was a little under half an hour later when Red Alert came back. She performed the same basic checks the nurse had--pulse, breathing--and when she scanned Windblade with her magic, she went deeper. When she pulled away, she sighed. “When you decide to pull something like this, you don’t half-ass it. Your magic kept the soot from falling into your lungs. That’s good. It is, however, in your stomach, and the only time charcoal is good in your digestive system is when you have intaken poison, and even then it’s not meant to stay. The coughing is because you have soot caked at the back of your throat, and you managed to burn off the top two layers of skin. That one you’ll recover from the most quickly if you use your burn cream.” She looked at Starscream. “Help her with that. The wall of exhaustion is going to hit shortly once the adrenaline fully leaves her system, and she’ll be useless for two, maybe three days.” She looked back at Windblade. “Next time, try not to run into a burning building?”

“I was the only one immune to fire,” Windblade mumbled.

“One day, I am going to request and actually receive the health diaries of Camien fire witches, so I can argue with you more effectively on that point. If your skin burns off, you’re not immune. Still, you’re in better shape than anyone else, so I suppose that  _ is _ your magic at work.”

“The babies?” Windblade asked, rousing a little.

Red Alert’s shoulders slumped. “They’ll live, and thanks to you, they won’t have deficits from air deprivation,” she said to Starscream. “I’m keeping them overnight. They got burned like you did, but since they’re so young, that’s more dangerous. Still, if you hadn’t protected them, we could be dealing with second or third-degree-burns, and that  _ would _ be far more lethal than merely a bad ‘sunburn.’ If they seem to be doing fine in the morning, I’ll release them to their parents.”

“And the dead?” Starscream asked.

“You always have to ask the hard questions,” Red Alert complained before she sobered. “We got lucky. They were on a shift change, and the house insisted on having at least an hour between shift off and on. The people who died were the ones who were actually in the room when the fire started. The rest were on the stairs or on the first floor. Their immediate response was to try to save those in the workroom, and the tools. Once that was done, I think they panicked. All of the parents--the only people who knew about the children in the nursery--were in the kitchens, getting a bite to eat before their shift started. They got rushed out with everyone else when the fire alarm was rung, and it took them another fifteen minutes to understand fully what was going on. Don’t blame them, please. They’ll be blaming themselves enough.”

“We would never,” Windblade murmured.

Starscream wasn’t sure about that, but he had been in enough situations that went south too quickly to know how easily panic overtook rational thought. “How many dead, Red Alert?”

“It looks like seven, including the babies,” Red Alert said reluctantly. “We’ll have better information once we can identify all of the survivors against the worker roles and be able to search what’s left. That fire isn’t burning hot enough to destroy bone.”

“No, just singe it,” Windblade said. She coughed again. “What are they saying about how it started?”

Red Alert hesitated. “What I got from the ones in the workroom before they passed was that they were in the process of lighting lamps when they felt this sort of, of,  _ whumph _ , and then the room was on fire. I do not believe it was an accident, not in that way. The carpenters are very careful with open flames. They have to be. But I don’t believe it was set either.”

“No,” Windblade said, a little vaguely as her attention slipped. “It didn’t behave like a set fire.”

Red Alert shrugged again. “It isn’t my job to figure out what happened, although I had my nurses take notes to pass on to the City Watch.”

“I’ll need to speak with them too,” Windblade yawned. “Can I have my potion so I can go home?”

“Of course.” Red Alert looked at Starscream. “Be gentle. Her skin will be very sensitive for a couple of days as it regenerates.”

“Why aren’t you telling me that?” Windblade complained.

“Because  _ you _ already know.” Red Alert reached out and rubbed some soot off Windblade’s nose. “And a bath. You won’t want to smell like you do when you wake up.”

Windblade made a face. “I’m running too hot right to take a bath. I’ll steam the water out.”

“Figure it out,” Red Alert said with absolutely no sympathy. “Excuse me.”

“You're running hot,” Starscream observed. “It isn’t the burn?”

“No, it’s the fire. It’s why I’m so cold.” Windblade tugged his robe further around her. “Even a night as mild as this one is...uncomfortable.” She looked up at him. “But if I step into hot water, steam. If I step into cold water, steam. There’s no good way to manage this right now.”

“We’ll see if we can get your temperature approaching normal,” he replied as Red Alert returned with an ugly yellow potion in a corked and sealed glass. 

“Drink  _ all _ of it,” Red Alert told Windblade. “I know it tastes like Unicron’s asshole, but  _ all of it. _ ”

“I did help write the post-smoke exposure protocols,” Windblade grumbled, “I  _ know _ .”

“Good.” Red Alert looked at Starscream. “We can find a cart if you need help.”

“No, I can do it,” Starscream said, and maybe it was their combined magics, but it took no effort to lift her into his arms and tuck her against him. He just had to be careful about jostling her.

He was a little displeased to see Captain Chromia assisting the fire brigade. “Leave her alone,” Windblade said as if she could read his mind. “Her shields are very helpful in times like this.”

Captain Chromia spotted them and loped over, her face nearly black with soot. “It’s dying down,” she informed them, “and Lord Thundercracker says there’s rain for tomorrow, so as soon as we deem it safe, he’ll call it along a little sooner to put out the last of it.”

“Why not right now?” Starscream demanded as he changed up his grip a little. 

“It’ll create steam,” Windblade said sleepily. “No good.”

Captain Chromia glanced down at Windblade with every sign of fondness. “Exactly. Unless you needed me for something else?”

Starscream dearly wanted to say  _ yes _ , but technically the captain was under Windblade’s command, and Windblade said, “No.”

“Right. I’ll get back to work then.” Captain Chromia tilted her head and went back to the fire brigade.

“Stay awake,” Starscream told Windblade as they went up the hill to the palace. “You have to bathe and drink this potion.”

“Potion, then bathe,” Windblade retorted before breaking off into a fit of coughing. When she had control of herself again, she said, “Vomiting makes me sweat.”

“And that would be a tragedy.” Starscream eased them into the main hall of the palace and set off for the third floor. It was not the last time he considered the fact that having to climb multiple flights of stairs to get to bed was awful, but the stairs had given them a chance to survive during the siege last year and he was nothing if not a survivor. 

When they got to her chambers, she started. “Dinner--with Lightbright. We were supposed--.”

He held her upright as she coughed again. She pulled one of his handkerchiefs out of his pocket--put there by her for this purpose--and spat something black into it. “Lightbright will wait,” he told her as she eased onto the small couch in her parlor. “She’s here until the wedding at least. You two will have plenty of time to catch up.” He went hunting for a basin and found a deeper one, almost a refuse bin, but Windblade nodded at the sight of it.

“We had a fight today,” she admitted as he broke the wax seal on the bottle. “Over stupid. Solus preserve me, I hate having fights over stupid.”

He remained standing as she chugged the contents of the bottle. When she had finished swallowing it, sweat was steaming off her pink face, and she was scowling. “It tastes the wo--.”

And then she leaned forward to empty her stomach into the bin. 

He decided to do the polite, meaningful thing of holding her hair back and determinedly not looking at what she was throwing up. He suspected it was soot mixed with mucus, but that didn’t make the experience any more pleasant for the both of them. 

It went on a long time, longer than he had expected. The vomiting made her sweat, as she had said, but she was still running so hot that all of the sweat came up as vapor. He spared a thought of gratitude for the fact that the coat she was wearing was meant to be a work-coat and therefore not one he hated to lose, if it came to that.

Finally, she stopped. “Water,” she rasped, “please.”

He let her go. “Will it turn to steam in your stomach?”

She cracked a weary smile. “Not if it’s lukewarm.”

“That’s manageable.” 

As promised, the lukewarm water helped. She swirled a mouthful before spitting it out into the refuse bin. Then, to his surprise, the refuse bin burst into flame. It burned for a few seconds before only leaving ash. “Easier to do that than ask the maids to clean it,” she yawned after downing the rest of the glass of water.

“But a loss of a refuse bin.”

She shrugged and tilted backwards into the couch’s back. When he touched her arm, he found she was still warm, but less. Feeding some of that heat into the refuse bin must have helped bleed her off. “If I get a damp cloth, could I wipe some of the soot off without causing steam burns?” he asked warily.

“Yes,” she said. “I could take a bath now.”

“Let’s get the worst of the soot off before you do,” he said, “that way you aren’t bathing in it.”

“Fine,” she almost whispered, her eyes slipping shut. 

She came back to herself when he returned and started to carefully wipe her face. He had taken the softest cloths she had, something she appreciated as she tilted her face to help him get more of the soot off. “Nine deaths,” she said, “in such a short period.”

“One of them was a toerag who got what he deserved,” Starscream put the cloth in a bowl of water to rinse it out. “The rest were victims. Do you think the fire and the assassination were connected?”

She was yawning again. “No,” she said after she was able to speak. “Assassinations are politically motivated. If that fire was set, which I don’t think it was, where’s the politics?”

“It might have been political, just not our political,” he pointed out.

“Still,” the problem with waking up again was that she had to feel things, “nine deaths. And four of them children.” Tears slipped out of her eyes and made tracks down her cheeks. “And I couldn’t save any of them.”

He paused in wiping her down to rest a hand on her shoulder. She was too tender and sore to hold unless he had to, and he didn’t want the soot on her skin on his tunic. It would be murder to get out. 

She leaned into his hand as she wept silently. Tears dripped down her cheeks onto her lap. Those poor parents, who would never hold their child again, and the people who weren’t coming home. The violence of Trotula’s death, so unnecessary and such a waste, it was just too much.

Finally, it felt like she had cried herself out. Starscream was wiping her face again, much more gently. The tears had helped flush out the soot around her eyes, but the salt stung and burned. “It is not up to you to save them,” Starscream said when she was able to focus. “You did your best. You  _ did _ save two children who would have died without you.”

“But--.”

“No,” he said. “This is not your burden to take.”

“You know a little something about guilt, then?” she took one of the other damp cloths to wipe her hands so she could help him.

He was smirking, a little. “No. I never acknowledge guilt.”

That didn’t mean it wasn’t there, but that was not a discussion she had the fortitude for. “Lightbright is going to blame me,” she said. “She’ll say I didn’t come to get her when she’s a fire witch too. I just didn’t think about it. If I had--.”

Starscream flicked the end of her nose. “Stop it,” he said more sternly. “And you’re not used to relying on her. She would not have made a difference. Those children were already dead when you got there.”

She nodded. “Sorry.”

He stroked her hair. “A bath, and then bed.”

“Yes,” she agreed.

She hadn’t realized he knew so much about treating burn recovery. He had lukewarm water in the bath, with calendula and lavender oil, and when she got out, he had her in her softest sleeping clothes and tucked her into bed with a gentleness she hadn’t thought him capable of.

“Try not to dream,” he advised as he pulled the covers over her. 

She smiled blearily at him. “I’ll do my best.” As she closed her eyes, she felt him kiss her forehead, and she slipped downward into sleep.

\--

_ April 14, 1038 _ _   
_ _ Iacon _

Windblade shifted her silk robe to have it lay more gently across her shoulders before she refocused on the spring. She was seated on the grass and her toes were in the water; Metroplex’s presence soothed the constant, if low-level, burning sensation on her skin as her skin regrew from last night’s trauma. 

She was supposed to be in bed, but she had slept long enough and Metroplex’s springs were as good a place as her bedchamber. The grass and trees rustled and arranged themselves around her for her best comfort; with Metroplex’s waters as their primary source of water, they were more aware than other plants, and they loved her like Metroplex loved her.

She leaned back onto her elbows and closed her eyes. The small sounds in her garden of birdsong, bubbling water, and rustling plants soothed her nerves and helped to mend some of the upset she still nurtured. If she and Chromia had been quicker, if she hadn’t so tired of mud that she needed to immediately clean herself off, they might have noticed the fire more quickly and gotten there in time to save more children. If only, if only…

Water pushed over the tops of her feet to her ankles, and she opened her eyes to see a magnificent orange swan tucking their wings down in the water. She sat upright, intrigued. Most of the birds who lived in this garden were not waterfowl, and waterfowl who might have been interested in a pool to lay their eggs and build their nests avoided this garden. She suspected Metroplex had something to do with it. “Careful,” she warned the swan, who was sailing toward her. “Metroplex is picky about who he lets in.”

At this, the look of disgust the swan gave her was so complete that she laughed. “I speak from experience,” she protested as she got a better look at the play of color on the swan’s face and beak. Unlike other swans she had seen in Caminus, the skin around the beak was a brilliant scarlet, and around the ears the feathers were tinted a soft orange. She wondered if Cybertronian swans had developed their own color lines. In any case, the swan was beautiful.

When the swan approached her feet, she tensed. She had never been attacked by a swan, but she had taken care of those who had and she didn’t need other injuries to recover from. The swan surprised her, though, when upon arrival to the shore, promptly crawled out of the water and onto her lap. Her astonishment was complete when the swan sighed audibly and laid their head on her shoulder.

With careful, slow movements, she lifted up one hand and slowly began to stroke the swan’s back. The feathers were so soft to her touch, and when the swan leaned further against her, she felt comfortable preening their back feathers. Down and dander lifted from their feathers to mark up her dress, but she ignored it in favor of enjoying the opportunity. 

“Windblade!” The swan was not so sanguine in the imminent arrival of her younger sister, and with a squawk, it jumped from her lap (she could feel the bruises forming on her stomach and thighs) and back into the water, splashing her severely.  “ _ Windblade! _ ”

“My dear sister,” Windblade said through her teeth as she tried to brush off the dander. “What can I do for you?”

“There was a fire,” Lightbright began.

“Yes, I am aware. I was there.”

“I know you were there. Why wasn’t  _ I _ there?”

Windblade felt the desire to pinch her nose, but it was not to be. Lightbright must not suspect how close to the edge of her temper Windblade actually was. “I had not thought of you,” she said politely, “and even if I had, I know how tiring travel can be. My lord Starscream has not yet had the opportunity to repair the roads leading to Iacon from the coast, so it is a bone-rattling ride.”

Lightbright, for the second time in as many days, felt as though her sister had slapped her. Windblade of course knew the costs of travel. This was Lightbright’s first trip outside Caminus--she hadn’t even visited the lowlands. She must think so lowly of Lightbright for her lack of experience. “Well, you  _ should _ have thought of me,” Lightbright corrected, angry and embarrassed at Windblade’s implication. “I might have helped you save more than just two children!”

Windblade’s own temper rose. She might have been flagellating herself over the same conundrum, but she knew what Starscream had told her last night was true: she did the best she could, as soon as she knew what was going on. “I can assure you,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even, “that you could not have. By the time I arrived, only two children were  _ alive _ .”

“You should--,” Lightbright began, but Windblade cut her off.

“You are full of what I  _ should _ be doing,” Windblade said angrily, “but you have only been here for a day. You haven’t seen me work, and you do not know the city like I do. When you do, I will be happy to take your advice!” 

“That isn’t what I meant!” Lightbright protested.

“Then what  _ do _ you mean? You sound like Hot Shot!” As soon as it passed her lips, Windblade wanted to take it back. Why was she so angry all the time? She didn’t mean to be. And Lightbright, bless her, only wanted to be helpful. Why did it bother her so much?

Lightbright’s face fell with hurt. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I’ll--I’m sorry. I’ll go away.”

“Lightbright--,” Windblade reached for her sister, but Lightbright fled. When she was gone, Windblade collapsed on the grass and looked back for the swan, who was aimlessly paddling in the spring water. “Well. I could have handled that better.”

The swan made a low noise, as if they agreed. Windblade groaned and hid her face in her hands. Sweet Solus, what was  _ wrong _ with her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, sibling tension--Lightbright's insecurities are rubbing directly against Windblade's trauma. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this--and that your appetite for more has been whetted!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Auro-Bot](https://auro_bot.tumblr.com) and [Bookoftheazuresky](https://bookoftheazuresky.tumblr.com) for acting as my betas. 
> 
> I know it's been a bit since the last chapter. The characters are all being super dramatic and keep retracting consent to be written. But! I have just finished chapter 8, so I am content.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include: arson, discussion of burns, and fire-related murder.
> 
> Enjoy!

**CHAPTER 3: ENTERTAINING STRANGERS**

_Iacon Fields  
April 20, 1038_

Lockdown had never been so grateful not to suffer from hay fever or other plant-related ailments as he and his team hid in the underbrush. He hadn’t dared to go back to the boss without anything to show for it, and with the big wedding coming up, they had been watching the trains of nobles coming into the city. The one brandishing the Camien flag was an immediate no-go; ambassadors would not be likely to welcome any pilgrims of any kind.

There was a caravan coming from the sea road without a country’s flag. Lockdown signed to his team. This was their chance. It was a general custom to accept other travelers in caravans, and Lockdown was relying on it.

As he and his outriders rode to the center of the road, the lead rider of the caravan called a halt. Lockdown held up his hands to show he was unarmed, in the hopes that the riders in front of him would take their hands off their weapons. “We’d like to join you, if we may,” he called.

“Where are you going?” the leader rider demanded. The wind caught their hood and pushed it back a little, to show a face with multiple scars. A warrior, then. 

Lockdown watched them carefully. “Iacon,” he said.

The leader raised their head. “What luck. So are we.”

“May we join you, then?” 

The lead rider looked over at their caravan, and then shrugged. “Why not?” 

Lockdown hid a grin. Events were working in his favor. 

\--

_Iacon_

Starscream found Windblade in the garden, feeding their newest resident. She said it was a swan, but he had his doubts. “Are you avoiding your sister _again_?”

“No, I found her to apologize for our last tiff,” she said without looking at him. He lowered himself to sit down next to her. He never would have done it in silk, but cotton washed more easily. “But I thought it might be more politic to send Chromia with her to explore the city, rather than with me.” She sighed. “She gets angry and then I get angry and it’s deeply uncomfortable. I just wish I understood _why_.”

“Wait a moment,” he said, already amused, “do I understand something about your sister that you don’t?”

She looked at him sidelong. “Enlighten me then, oh wise one.”

“No, no, I want to savor this.” He leaned his head and inhaled, enjoying how Windblade’s impatience made her throw small dried meats, mixed with grasses, to their swan guest. “She’s _jealous_ , you goose.”

“Why on earth would she be jealous?” Windblade snapped. 

“Look at everything you’ve accomplished,” he told her in a tone dripped with condescension. “The fields around Iacon are lush and green--your work.”

“I had help,” she objected, “and it required a sacrifice.”

He ignored that as unhelpful. “The city is thriving, since your work with Metroplex. You are an accomplished diplomat and you are trusted in many circles. This is not me speaking, of course. This is merely an observation.”

“Oh, of course,” she said, but her irritation was subsiding into amusement. “I think it’s ridiculous to be jealous of me.”

Starscream rolled his eyes skyward, begging _anyone_ listening to help Windblade see sense. “She’s twenty-one, you idiot, and she hasn’t felt like she’s accomplished anything! She comes here and she sees, for the first time, just what you are capable of and that perhaps staying home like she has is not good for her growth and ability. Oh, and she thinks you’re judging her for not being as accomplished or experienced as you are.”

“She’s only twenty-one,” Windblade said after that speech. “She’s just finished her ten-year apprenticeship. Why should she expect to have the experience and achievements I only earned after ten years’ work?”

“Because jealousy, my dear, is not rational. I also suspect she’s never felt this before, and therefore has no idea how to combat the feeling.” He shrugged and lay down on his back. “Have you given this creature a name yet?”

“She hasn’t informed me of what it is,” Windblade said, dusting her hands off on her skirt and turning to face him.

“But she has informed you of preferred pronouns?” he asked, closing his eyes when she started to run one of her hands through his curls.

“It was an entire conversation,” Windblade said. He knew she was smiling. “Are you certain she’s not a swan?”

“I’ve already told you. There are no swans I’ve ever seen with an orange tint to their feathers.” He patted the grass next to him, and she laid down and put her head on his chest. “But you can persist in believing she’s a swan. You’ll just be wrong.”

She turned her face into his chest to muffle her laughter. “I love how you keep me humble.”

He pinched her bottom, but gently. “It is, unfortunately, mutual.”

They quieted in the late morning sun. He hadn’t had such a restful time in too long, and the warmth of her body was welcome against his. He was just beginning to think about the merits of a nap when there was another ripple to the ground, and the not-swan flew out of Metroplex’s springs with a squawk. He watched her fly up and over the wall. 

Windblade sat up. “That’s the second time that’s happened,” she said. “The first happened when that assassin tried to kill us, remember?”

“I can hardly forget,” he said as he pushed himself up. In truth, he _had_ forgotten. The assassin and everything that had come after had pushed the strange ripple from his mind completely. “But no assassins are here now.”

“I do not believe it was about the assassin,” she said. “I think we should go inside.” 

He got up first and helped her to her feet. “I think you might be right. Do you believe your sister might have some insight?”

“It can’t hurt to ask,” she said grimly. “I certainly hope someone knows _something_.”

\--

Lightbright nodded to the members of the Council that were milling about in the library-slash-Council Chamber. At the last ripple of power, all available members of the Council immediately came to the library, where Lightbright had already been. 

It had definitely been power, although from what she overheard from the whispering Council members, they thought it was an earthquake. She could understand why they thought that--the Cybertronians she had met had not been particularly sensitive to changes in power. She wondered if it had been the war that had dampened their senses. _She_ had been educated to know.

When Windblade and Lord Starscream entered the library, Lord Starscream pushed out a security spell that kept away eavesdroppers and other saboteurs. “Well,” he told the Council. “Any thoughts? Did it cause any damage?”

The catlike one stepped forward. “My spies say it’s nothing but a few broken plates and some poorly-placed shelves coming down. It was very minor, but since it’s the second one in three weeks, people are worried.” What was their name again? Ravish? No, that couldn’t be right.

Wait. “I’m sorry,” Lightbright interrupted, “the _second_ one?” Everyone looked at her, and she swallowed hard before meeting Windblade’s eyes. “There were two of these?”

“Yes,” Windblade said, “but the first time coincided with--something else, and I am afraid we lost sight of it because of the other events.”

“This wasn’t an earthquake,” Lightbright said.

The short one who wore black lined with yellow (an...interesting color scheme), stepped forward and leaned on a cane. “Not an earthquake?” their voice was a rasp, like Lord Starscream’s, only without the scarring on Lord Starscream’s throat. “What was it?”

“It _felt_ like an earthquake,” she explained, “but it was a ripple of power.”

“From where?” Lord Starscream demanded.

If he tried, he could figure it out, but Lightbright held back that remark. It wouldn’t be helpful. “The seals that keep other realms apart is weakening. These two ripples of power mean that something has broken through the seals.”

“Oh, this is ridiculous!” one of the other Council members snapped. Ultra Magnus--Lightbright knew _him_ \--frowned at the speaker. “Seals? Realms? We live in the real world!”

“I can understand why you would feel that way,” Windblade answered, before Lightbright could, “but several things within the last eighteen months have belonged to fairy tales and yet have happened here. Lightbright, could you expound on that perhaps?”

Lightbright swallowed. “When Primus forged the Primes to fight the Dead One,” she began, but the snappish Council Member sighed angrily.

“Do we need a lecture on the Camien folklore of how our world was formed?” they demanded of Lord Starscream. “How is this relevant?”

Lord Starscream sat down in one of the chairs at the head of the Council table. “I’m certain, Metalhawk, if you let her speak she will get to the relevant part,” Lord Starscream said as he propped his chin on his hand. “Of course, that involves letting her speak. Will that be a problem?”

‘Metalhawk’ flushed and sat down. “My apologies, my lady.”

“No offense was taken,” Lightbright said. “I understand it seems a little...fantastic.” Everyone was sitting down, and she stayed upright.  She was shorter than the rest of them, and she needed whatever height she could get. “But I am afraid that ‘Camien folklore’ is very relevant to this discussion.”

She waited until Windblade gave her a nod, and then she began, “Primus forged the Primes to assist in his fight against the Dead One, Unicron. In doing so, there were...leftovers, that became the companions of all the Primes. Solus had her firebirds, Vector had his chimeras…” Lightbright gestured to the air around her to indicate the magnitude of the fauna she was describing.  “When the final push came to defeat Unicron once and for all, and to seal him into the Dead Lands, it took an extraordinary amount of magic, and ultimately everything and everyone that Primus forged had to contribute to the effort. It resulted in all of the companions being sealed into other realms, with the idea being that as long as they are sealed in their home realms, so too is Unicron sealed to the Dead Lands. Those ripples of power indicate that something _is_ breaking through the seals.” She nodded to Windblade and Lord Starscream. “I believe it is because your magics have not been joined since Megatronus and Solus Prime.”

Lord Starscream looked bored at her pronouncement, and Windblade looked uncomfortable. She didn’t like people to be reminded of her power and where it came from, Lightbright remembered. It gave people _ideas_. 

“Has something happened recently that you can’t explain?” Lightbright asked the Council. “Some strange occurrence?”

The Council members looked at each other in some confusion, and then Relish or whomever said, “Well, there was that fire. It wasn’t set, but it wasn’t an accident either.”

“A fire? The fire from a few weeks ago?” Lightbright hadn’t really believed it when Windblade said that a carpentry house fire hadn’t been set, even accidentally. It was so easy to make a mistake where open flame was concerned, and carpentry materials burned quickly. “You’re certain?”

“The survivors said that in the main workroom, they were in the process of lighting the lamps for the night shift when there was a feeling of pressure and a thumping noise, and then the room was on fire,” said Relish. “They watch their candles when they set the lamps, and once the lamps are burning, they blow out the candles. If that’s what they said happened, I believe them.”

“What do you think _that_ could be?” Metalhawk favored Lightbright with a condescending smirk.

“It could be many things,” Lightbright said, trying to come across as thoughtful. She wasn’t used to being put on the spot, and she wished Windblade would help her. Windblade knew the folklore as well as she did. “Many of the companion creatures were associated with fire in some degree. That does not preclude the notion that in opening the seals, fire may have come with them. It’s not enough information.”

“How...useful you are,” Metalhawk said.

Windblade cleared her throat, and Metalhawk suddenly looked sheepish. “Lightbright, everyone here understands that you are doing the best you can under the circumstances,” Windblade said, “and it’s more information than we had before. It makes sense with what I have experienced, and Metroplex’s upset.”

That appeared to be the final word. The Council acknowledged the existence of Metroplex--it wasn’t like they could pretend otherwise--but he made the Council uncomfortable, since he wasn’t someone who could physically join them at the Council but he still had the final word. 

“Metroplex is upset?” The one clad in black and yellow inquired.

Windblade nodded. “He’s not angry, but he’s...excited about something. Not happy-excited.”

Lightbright bit her bottom lip and then said, “I am happy to help in whatever capacity I can.”

“Is there anything else we need to know?” Lord Starscream asked the Council, almost lazily. 

When he got a chorus of ‘no’, he tapped his hand on the wooden table. “Then let’s get back to work.”

“Actually, I need to speak to both of you,” Lightbright told Lord Starscream and Windblade. “As quickly as possible.”

They exchanged a look and then they waited as the rest of the Council filed out. Once the room was empty, Lord Starscream flicked his fingers and re-upped the security spells. “What.”

Lightbright drew a leather-wrapped pouch out of her bag. “Mother sent this. I had just forgotten until now, I’m sorry. She thinks--well, she _recommends_ that these be your vows.” She held out the leather pouch, and Windblade took it.

Lord Starscream was supremely unimpressed. “Why does your mother feel the need to recommend vows?”

“Well,” Lightbright said awkwardly. This would be so much easier if Mother could make this case properly, instead of Lightbright presenting her case badly, “she feels that you two are both very powerful, and t-that, well--.”

“She wants us to bind our power,” Windblade said as she looked up from the unwrapped folio. “To each other. We are apparently too powerful on our own and present all sorts of risks running amok the way we do now, so we must bind our powers in the wedding ceremony.”

Lord Starscream turned to look at Lightbright, and she felt physically smaller. He rose slowly, and Lightbright took a step back. “I do not remember asking your mother what she thinks about how powerful we are, and quite honestly, if she values Primus and Solus as much as she says she does, than she should just accept that we are as we were,” he glanced at Windblade, “ _forged_ to be.”

“It’s Mother’s opinion, not mine!” Lightbright squeaked.

“Oh, stop rumbling at her,” Windblade said with irritation. “It’s not like it’s what she’s arguing. I’ll talk it over with Metroplex. If anyone knows whether we should,” she made a face, “bind our power, it will be him.” She turned on Lightbright, and Lightbright quailed. She was not used to the idea that Windblade had a temper, but she had been seeing it far more than she had _ever_ seen it at home. “There are ideas in this that are good, and I will be discussing them with him-- _both_ hims--later. In the meantime, I will ask you to carry a strongly-worded letter to Mother telling her how welcome her contributions are. I will not ask you to read it. In fact, you probably shouldn’t. But you _will_ carry it to her. Are we clear?”

Lightbright nodded, suddenly afraid of her sister. She could guess what the letter would contain--since the announcement of the betrothal the winter before last, relations between Windblade and their mother had been...fractured. She had tried to mend it in her letters, but it had been unwelcome, from both parties.

“Stop rumbling at her,” Lord Starscream told Windblade. “It’s not her fault.”

Windblade rubbed her face with her hands. “He’s right. I’m sorry.” She looked up. “I need to talk to Metroplex. Is there anything else you need from me?”

“No, go,” Lord Starscream said. He pointed to one of the empty chairs. “You, sit.”

Without thinking about it, Lightbright slid into the directed seat. He propped his chin on his hand and smirked at Windblade. “Bye.”

Windblade rolled her eyes as she left. Starscream waited until she had left the room before he leaned back in his chair. “So tell me about your spouse.”

Lightbright laughed, a little nervously, “So you know about Sparkstalker, then.”

“Windblade mentioned it.” He veiled his eyes with a languid smirk. “I also understand that there might be some difficulty in getting your mother to recognize the marriage, in light of...recent events.” 

“You mean Thunderblast’s pregnancy?” Lightbright sighed. “I have to admit, her pregnancy so soon after years of trying and failing is a little...suspicious.”

“Are you certain?” Starscream inquired. “Because that suspicion could be seen as resentment. Becoming heir presumptive was within your grasp and then a sudden pregnancy...I will tell you that Windblade’s suspicion is that Thunderblast recently changed her entire household staff.”

Lightbright blanched at the thought. “That wouldn’t--Mother wouldn’t--.”

“I see I have given you something to think about,” Starscream said. “Are you so sure she would not?”

“I would prefer to believe that Thunderblast was indiscreet,” Lightbright confessed.

“We would always prefer that our mentors be good and perfect and those we dislike to constantly make bad decisions,” Starscream said. “Unfortunately, that is not the world. Many things could be laid at Thunderblast’s feet but not _that_ particular charge.”

“Why are you advising me?” she demanded. “I would have expected--.”

“Windblade to do it? Oh, she might, in time.” He shrugged and sat upright. “But since I am soon to marry her, I thought I might act as a, hm, elder brother might.”

Lightbright gaped at him. “You shall not!”

His dark eyes twinkled with something she could not identify--perhaps mischief or malice. “You should be wary with your spouse,” he recommended, “for marriages made in haste typically fester.” He eyed her askance. “ _Was_ there a reason to hasten the marriage?”

“Only so that I might marry who _I_ chose,” she said defiantly. 

“Look how well that has treated your brother.”

“I look at how well it treated my sister!” She crossed her arms and glared at him.

To her surprise, he laughed. “Oh, you _are_ her sister. You have her temper--and her impulsiveness. Nevertheless, heed me. I am certain, if your mother applied to her various advocates, they could find any number of reasons to dissolve your marriage or place barriers on--Sparkstalker, was it?--being respected for being your spouse. A morganatic marriage will treat them dishonorably, and your children could never inherit.” The twinkling in his eyes had vanished, and she swallowed when his gaze was leveled on her. “That child Thunderblast is carrying may be the only reason your marriage is allowed to stand. I would be more considerate of her, in that case.” He stood. Lightbright stood up, half a second behind. “If you will excuse me.”

Once he was gone, she announced to the room, with feeling, “Oh I _hate_ him.”

\--

Windblade took over her outer robe absently. For normal interactions with Metroplex, it was enough to sit on the shore of his springs and read the water movements, but for what her mother demanded, she would need to go to where he lived. Had it a been a year ago, all she would have had to do was climb down a flight of stairs, but as rebuilding took place in the city and the development of her garden, Metroplex had closed off the private entrances in favor of the public ones.

She would have to swim it.

She was a strong swimmer and not afraid of either the dark or enclosed places, but it would take work to get down there on a single breath. Metroplex could defy the natural laws of water only so far. He had yet to achieve ‘breathable water’ for her.

She steeled herself and went under the water. The darkness closed over her head and she swam downwards. 

It got very dark before it got lighter, reflecting the lights of Metroplex’s source spring. The water rippled strangely, proof of the liminality Metroplex had put in place. When she approached the edge of the spring, the water wrapped around her and dropped her to dry ground. She breathed in deeply as she leaned against the stone of the cavern, and Metroplex’s lights flickered a light green of concern at her. “Just give me a moment,” she gasped.

When she could catch her breath, she slid down and crossed her legs underneath her. “I have something to tell you,” she told Metroplex, “and I would like to have your advice.”

Metroplex’s lights dimmed in anticipation, and she wasted no time in summarizing her mother’s proposal. The waters began to tremble when she mentioned her mother’s suggestions for vows (Windblade agreed with Metroplex on that--she would not promise to _obey_ ), and the waters exploded upward when she finished with the final request: that Starscream and Windblade bind their powers in the marriage ceremony.

Windblade wiped water off her face. “I take it you do not agree, then,” she said mildly.

Metroplex’s lights burst in multicolored patterns, patterns Windblade struggled to understand. “Please, just a little slower,” she requested. 

Metroplex’s colors slowed, until she could read it. She frowned. “Are you certain? It hasn’t been done in generations.”

The color and light pattern repeated with greater brightness, his version of emphasis. “Very well,” she said. “I will discuss it with him.” She hesitated before asking, “Are the seals keeping the Dead One in place weakening?”

Metroplex’s lights burst into yellow and gold. He was laughing. “So Lightbright was wrong about that,” Windblade mused, “but what do these ripples of power mean?”

In the source spring, Metroplex’s lights flickered in an incomprehensible pattern. “Do you know and you’re not willing to tell me?”

Metroplex’s lights shone gold. “Stop laughing at me,” Windblade said. “Right. I will go inform Starscream, unless there’s something else you want to talk about?”

Metroplex signaled a negative. He lifted the ground under her feet until he could lift her to the water pool above her head, and she took a deep breath before launching upward into the water. It took more effort to swim upward than downward, and by the time she broke the surface of the water, she was gasping and her limbs were burning.

She didn’t have the breath to squawk with surprise when the swan and a new friend swam around her head. Her arms were burning, and the two swans flapped their wings and sprayed her with water. She grunted and wiped her face as her legs treaded water, and she heard Starscream on the bank say, “Well, don’t just sit there. Help her.”

To her shock, the swans (never a particularly obliging species of waterfowl), moved close to her so that she could throw her arms around their backs. When she had done so, barely understanding, the swans towed her to shore and deposited her among the grass.

Starscream stood above her, brandishing a towel. “How did you--,” she croaked as she reached for the towel and buried her face in it. Her hair had come loose in the water, and she tried to simultaneously squeeze the water from it and roll over. It did not work.

“Those two are not swans,” Starscream informed her as he hauled her up the bank and out of the water. “I don’t know what they are, but it’s not swans. They like you too much.”

“Oh, and swans wouldn’t like me?” she asked acidly as she wrapped the overlarge towel around herself.

“Swans don’t like anyone. They’re contrary, violent _assholes_.”

She laughed a little. “Fair enough.” She looked up at the sky. “I’m a mess.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “You have water weeds in your hair.”

She squawked and tried to sit up, and without any effort, he pushed her back down. “You look like a water spirit,” he told her.

“That does not compliment me!” she exclaimed.

“Fine, I’ll pick them out,” he said. “What did Metroplex say?”

“Well, I can tell you that he does not approve with Mother’s suggestion. He thinks it folly to bind our power,” she hesitated before she added, “his thought is that Mother suggested it so that our magics will not repeat in our children or further down in the generations.”

“She’s cannier than I gave her credit for. She couldn’t prevent either of us having the magics we do, so she’ll want to prevent it in our children. So what does Metroplex suggest?”

“A bonding, not a binding.” Windblade sat up, and this time he let her. “The night before the wedding, I will go down to his main spring and he will use his power to bond me to the land. In the morning, he will open himself to the ceremony--he thinks Lightbright should perform it for that reason--and use his magics to bond us together. He can’t bond the both of us at the same time in the same ritual to the land,” she admitted, “it tires him, but the bond takes at least a day to settle, and during that time, with the right magics, it can be shared.”

“Hm,” Starscream said. “That would make us...more powerful.”

“Yes.”

“Your mother would hate it.” He considered the problem and then grinned. “I approve.” He looked down at her and picked out the last of the water weeds. “And your sister will perform the ceremony...does this mean you have to change what you’re wearing to the wedding?”

Windblade’s eyes widened. “The dress!”

Starscream stared at her. “Please tell me you have a wedding dress.”

“No, I was going to show up naked,” she snapped absently, and then she sighed. “No, I remember. Lightbright said something in her letter about bringing a wedding dress. _The_ wedding dress. Oh Solus.” She scrambled to her feet and wrapped the towel around her. “Excuse me.”

Starscream watched her fast-walk away from him, mouth agape. She wasn’t usually so scattered. Had the wedding rotted her brain? That was a terrifying thought.

\--

_April 21, 1038  
Iacon_

Lightbright entered the parlor that was going to be playing host to the small refreshment party for the arriving ambassadors later that night. Starscream was seated at one of the tables, sorting through cards, and he glanced at her when she sat down opposite him. “What?” he asked.

“I can’t come and see you?” she replied.

He returned to the cards in front of him. “I suppose you could, but you don’t have a habit of seeking out my company just for the sake of it. Has Windblade settled on her dress?”

“Yes,” Lightbright said. “Mother sent it. Every lady of our house has gotten married in it.”

“Please tell me it’s been cleaned in the interim,” Starscream said.

“Oh Solus, of course!” Lightbright said, utterly scandalized. “But she is not...thrilled about it.”

Starscream looked up. “Is this why you’re here? I have to go soothe her wounded feelings?”

“Not...precisely. You see, the dress isn’t exactly, er, _one_ dress. It’s seven layers, and she had hoped she wouldn’t have to wear it, but Mother made sure it came with me and she is...unhappy.”

Starscream propped his chin in his hand. “She’s not generally so shallow to be put out because of a dress. What did you two argue about?”

Lightbright looked down at the table and traced the covering with her fingertips.  “I don’t want to perform the ceremony.”

Starscream put down the cards. “Why?” She picked up on the warning note in his voice and shrank down further. “You are the only one, besides Windblade, who can communicate with Metroplex.” He considered that. “That’s a problem, I think.”

“Metroplex scares me,” she said bluntly. “He doesn’t like me very much.”

“He loves Windblade dearly. I would almost be concerned if he wasn’t more of an energy construct than a person.” Starscream looked her over. “For anyone insecure about their skill in comparison to Windblade, naturally he would seem overwhelming.”

Lightbright sat upright and opened her mouth to snap a retort, but when she caught his look she realized that was what he had intended. “He can pick up on my--,” her voice cracked and she whispered the last word, “ _jealousy?_ ”

“You would be amazed at what he knows,” Starscream said as he sorted the piles of cards on the table. The cards announced which ambassadors had arrived, and it looked like a good group. Excellent. “But the fact remains that you are the only one who can learn from Metroplex how the ceremony should be performed.”

“Mother doesn’t want either of you to be more powerful.”

Starscream didn’t even look at her. “And what do you think? You are meant to be the heir, are you not?”

“I think she worries too much.” Lightbright folded her hands together on top of the table. “Do I _have_ to?”

Starscream’s hands stilled from his organizing, and he leveled a look on her that made her quail. “I have heard enough from Windblade about how she cherishes her duty to know it is part of Camien education. Why are you shirking?”

Lightbright glared at him, clearly stung. “I’m not _shirking_. It is a valid question--I have to let Metroplex into my _head_.”

“And think of what you can learn when he’s there,” Starscream replied with absolutely no sympathy. “He would not have recommended it if you wouldn’t be safe.”

“I don’t want him seeing--what I’ve been thinking.”

Starscream bit down on a sarcastic endearment. It would have worked with Windblade, not with her sister. “He’s seen inside _my_ head. Trust me, I’m worse.”

Lightbright stared at him. “He _has?_ But you’re not a cityspeaker!”

“It was deeply unpleasant,” Starscream said in his most blasé fashion. “It was part of the introduction ritual that Windblade insisted on when she first came here. Trust me, _I’m worse._ He may be very protective of Windblade, but he will only judge you a little unless you mean your sister harm. Do you mean your sister harm?”

“Of course not!”

“Then there should not be a problem. I will inform Windblade to set up the time for you and Metroplex to get acquainted.” He pulled the card from Airazor and Tigatron, dismissing her from his thoughts as she was no longer interesting.

Lightbright gaped at him, a little in awe at how quickly he had resolved the argument she and Windblade had been having for over an hour. “You--,” she started.

“Go away,” he said. “I have things to do and you’re distracting.”

With a huff, she got to her feet and flounced away. Starscream hid a smile as he made a note in his book. She was too easy to manipulate--had Windblade been like that at twenty-one? No wonder Elita had found her so easy to use.

\--

Windblade placed a pair of ruby drops in her ear lobes as the final touch for her outfit. Her hair was braided and pinned around her hair, with scarlet ribbons and small gold drops woven through it to catch the light. Her robes were red, with gold, black, and white embroidery of flames on the outer robe and birds on the inner robe. She had worked on the embroidery herself, and she loved how the flames moved with the ripples of fabric.

It was a little too fancy for an informal party, but she couldn’t dance in it, which was tomorrow’s party, so it would have to do. She turned her head to catch view of her profile in the mirror, to admire how the light glinted on the ruby drops and on the ribbons in her hair. 

“You’ve always been more beautiful than me,” Lightbright said from the doorway.

Windblade jumped. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I didn’t want you to,” Lightbright admitted as she came into the room with a polished wooden box. Windblade eyed it with misgivings. She had already decided on her shawl for the evening. She was _not_ changing it. “I wanted to see if you realized it. Thunderblast knows she’s pretty and she uses it. I’ve never been sure if you knew.”

“I am aware that I am pleasing to the general eye,” Windblade said carefully, “but my appearance does not control my decisions.”

“You could have just said ‘I know I’m pretty, but I’m not vain about it.’” Lightbright gave her sister a playful smile as she laid the box down on Windblade’s vanity table. “Why do you use so many words?”

Windblade laughed a little. “Starscream asked me that once. What is that?” She indicated the box as Lightbright found the little iron key in her robe pocket. 

“It was something Mother wanted you to have. It’s belonged to every lady of Caminus who married outside their country.” One click of the key opened the lid, and Windblade swallowed a gasp as the candlelight fell on the fan-shaped golden hairpiece. “When you die, it has to come back, but it’s yours until then.”

“I remember seeing Solus wear this headpiece in the tapestries in the Temple,” Windblade said quietly as she lifted it from its nest of red velvet. The gold was etched with thin spirals in the front of the hair piece, and it rested on a steel comb that could be inserted into her hairstyle. “I hadn’t thought it still existed.”

“No lady of Caminus has married outside Caminus in three generations,” Lightbright said, “so it wouldn’t be featured in the Portrait Gallery. But Mother said it should go to you.”

Windblade met Lightbright’s eyes in the mirror. “Why do you resent me?”

Lightbright flushed. “I don’t.”

“You do. You’ve felt it the entire time. So I will ask again: why do you resent me?”

Lightbright’s flush deepened and she looked down at her robe hem. “It’s...uncomfortable, how powerful you are. Not just magically. You have power here. You could have had this power at home, had Mother and Hot Shot let you. You could have done so much at home, but you’re doing it here. And you’re rubbing it in my face!”

“I’m not!” Windblade turned in her chair to look at Lightbright. “It is not my fault that I have made a home here, that I have made a place. If it makes you insecure, that is _not_ my fault.”

Lightbright’s eyes flashed with anger, but Starscream entered through their shared door and halted the rising argument. “We’re going to be late,” he said as he adjusted the cuffs of his heavily embroidered outer robe. “That’s a pretty headpiece--are you wearing it tonight?”

Windblade glanced down at the heavy wrought gold fan. “No. It’s too formal. Tomorrow.”

“Fine.” He looked at Lightbright. “Are you walking in with us?”

She placed the iron key on the vanity desk. “No, I’ll go now.”

Once the door closed behind her, Starscream raised his eyebrows at Windblade. “Giving her some home truths, as it were?”

“We need to have a fight,” Windblade said, unhappily. “It’s coming, but every time we start to storm, something interrupts it, and this wasn’t the best time in any case. I have to introduce her to everyone there tonight.”

“Well then,” Starscream said as he pulled her upright. “We had better go down.”

When they arrived at the small ballroom that served as host to their gathering, it was to cheers and general good wishes. Starscream allowed his hand to be shaken multiple times and Windblade was congratulated until she wished their tongues would fall out. A marriage like theirs wasn’t for personal reasons, although she could appreciate it on that personal level; the marriage was for state reasons, and so to be congratulated as if she had worked hard to hook him and he had courted her properly made her a little irritated.

Still, it proved one thing: over the past year, the work both of them had put it had engendered a huge amount of goodwill, and with that came political cachet. She could see that Starscream was already considering that with a gleam in his eyes. She left him to his calculations as Knockout and Breakdown approached.

Knockout was more elegant than usual in a scarlet wrap and ruby-studded sandals, and he reached out to tap Windblade’s shoulder with a red fan. “My lord, may I borrow her? I would like to be introduced to her sister.”

Windblade looked at Starscream, who nodded and turned to talk to Thundercracker and the Devishun twins. Knockout offered his arm and Windblade tucked hers into the crook of his elbow. He led her and Breakdown over to where Lightbright was examining the refreshments table. “Lightbright,” Windblade greeted as they came to a stop in front of the fruit. “May I introduce you to Delegates Knockout and Breakdown, from Navitas? I know them well from my time at Navitas.”

Lightbright offered her hand, and Knockout bowed over it. “My lady princess,” he said, “I see that you both have similar tattoos. What do they signify?”

Lightbright blinked. “You’ve known my sister for years and you didn’t ask _her?_ ”

“She was the only Camien I met, and it would be _rude_ to ask if that was some strange Camien custom,” Knockout sniffed. “But now since there’s two of you, I can ask without it being nativist.”

Windblade hid her giggles behind her hand as Lightbright looked poleaxed. It was a common expression for people who hadn’t met Knockout before. “I can answer for this,” Windblade said, “it marks that we have completed training as cityspeakers. It is a ten year program. We begin it when we are eleven and complete it when we are twenty-one.”

“So she can do what you do?” Knockout examined Windblade. “Why are you the one traveling, then?”

“Because I only just finished my training,” Lightbright answered, her eyes flicking to Windblade. “And we only produce a certain number of cityspeakers per generation. I was the only one trained in my generation.”

“Same for me,” Windblade added. “It takes a certain flexibility in mindset and magic. I believe that there are currently two in training…” she directed at Lightbright with raised eyebrows. 

Lightbright nodded. “I believe that Override has requested a cityspeaker? Or to train a Navitan, although I’m not certain that will work...Cityspeaking isn’t as embedded in Navitan culture as it is in ours.”

Windblade waited for Lightbright to realize what she had said and to whom she said it. It took a few seconds, and then Lightbright’s skin flushed deep red. “I’m sorry,” she said hastily. “I just meant--.”

“Oh, we know,” Knockout flicked his red fingertips (dyed with henna, Windblade noted) at Lightbright. “Not every government is a theocracy.” He smiled prettily at her.

Lightbright’s eyes narrowed, but Windblade rested a hand on her arm. “I always appreciated the differences in the cultures I observed as an ambassador,” Windblade said lightly. She winked at Breakdown as she joked, “If only so I know how my home is best.”

Knockout sniffed and playfully tapped her shoulder with his fan. “Don’t be _rude_ , my lady.”

“Oh no,” she said, widening her eyes in an appeal to innocence. “It’s merely an observation!” She smiled at the three of them. “As if you don’t do the same thing.”

“Well,” Knockout drawled, “I would never _admit_ it.”

Windblade’s appeal to humor worked; they all chuckled, and the tension that had gathered from Lightbright’s thoughtless remark dissipated. Lightbright squeezed Windblade’s hand in thanks, and Knockout looked over Windblade’s shoulder. “We’re about to have company.”

She half-turned to see Airazor and Tigatron bearing down on her. Airazor was smiling, but there was tension in the lines around her eyes and mouth. “If you will excuse me,” Windblade told her group, and she pointed at Knockout. “Be nice.”

As Knockout protested he was never anything _but_ nice, Windblade detached herself from them to go over to Airazor with her hands out. Airazor took her hands and squeezed them as Tigatron bowed. “My lady,” he rumbled. Windblade did not know him as well as she knew Airazor--she had stayed with Airazor during her first trip to Eukaris--but she could tell that if he was in his tiger form, his tail would be lashing. 

“What’s wrong?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” Airazor chattered, her voice dipping into a higher pitch like the bird she occasionally was. “But we should speak a little more privately.” 

Windblade nodded and drew them into one of the corners with a small table. As they sat down, Airazor breathed in deeply before she said, “I have been instructed to extend an invitation to you and Lord Starscream to visit Eukaris after the wedding. You see, Blackarachnia wants to read your fate.”

Windblade raised her eyebrows. “She read my fate once.”

“Years ago,” Airazor said, dismissing the experience. Windblade had not particularly enjoyed it, but she couldn’t deny that Blackarachnia had a gift. “But this has to do with you _two_. She told me there are some tangles that she can’t quite see through, but that the wedding should make it clear which tangles will matter and which will not. It is absolutely crucial that you see her.”

Windblade tapped the table as she thought. “I am not certain my lord will appreciate the importance of the request. He does not think much of fortune-tellers.”

Airazor reared back. “Blackarachnia is so much more than a _fortune-teller._ ”

“Yes, _I_ know that,” Windblade said, barely reining in her impatience. “But _he_ does not.”

“She’s a fatespinner!” Airazor protested.

“To someone who knows what that means, it’s very impressive. To someone who does not…” Windblade shook her head. “I’ll talk to him. That’s all I can promise right now.”

Airazor calmed down. “That’s fine. I know you will convince him.” She smiled at Windblade. “Now, tell me all about...” She trailed off, her eyes widening.

Windblade sat upright. “Airazor?”

“You have to be jesting,” she whispered, before she said in a slightly louder voice, “Windblade, do not turn around.”

Windblade blinked. She was aware that the conversation had died away in the room, and she glanced at Starscream. He was staring at the entrance, confusion and irritation writ large on his face. She started to turn around, and Airazor grabbed her wrist. “Don’t,” Airazor begged, “everyone will look at you and it will be clear what has happened. _Please_ , Windblade.”

Then Windblade heard a voice that turned her blood to ice. “All of you look so serious. Was it really so unexpected that I would attend?”

Windblade turned in her chair and saw someone she had not seen in years. Her mouth went dry as Elita-1 took off her outer cloak and handed it to a servant there for the purpose. Elita’s eyes swept over the group and stopped at Windblade. As Windblade sat in a daze, Elita’s lips curved into her most intimate smile. 

Slowly, the assemblage turned to see to whom Elita was smiling so provocatively, and Windblade’s cheeks burned at the sudden attention. But she couldn’t look away from Elita’s dark eyes. The years fell away from them. She was twenty-two again, and Elita was bowing over her hand at the masquerade held in her honor. Elita’s smile had turned her knees to wax then, and Windblade was desperately aware that she would fall over if she attempted to stand up now.

“Of course not,” Starscream said, drawing attention back to him. Elita’s eyes left Windblade at last, and Windblade realized she hadn’t breathed as long as Elita gazed at her. “In fact, you are most welcome.” He moved out of the group to bow to Elita. Elita bowed back. Starscream offered his arm, and Elita’s lips curled again in a smile--this one sardonic and almost cruel, but only Windblade was aware of it. Windblade watched as Starscream drew Elita over the other side of the room, and she made herself turn back to Airazor and Tigatron.

“So,” she said as brightly as she could, when her spark pounded in her ears, “I want all the gossip. Has Cheetor gotten married yet?”

Tigatron gave her a nod of approval. Airazor launched into the gossip, and slowly, Windblade regained control of herself. She must not approach Elita tonight. It would cause too much talk, and she still wasn’t sure how Starscream felt about it. She had no desire to deal with his jealousy. She could not deal with his jealousy, she corrected mentally. Not when her own feelings were still so confused.

The sounds of the party slowly grew, until it was the same buzz it had been before Elita’s dramatic arrival. Windblade relaxed slightly, although she dared not look around. The fact that Elita had courted her once was common knowledge in _this_ crowd, but it was not well-known how intimate that courtship had gotten. 

Tigatron cut off his wife’s easy flow of talk with a hand to her elbow. “Windblade,” he said quietly but urgently, “your sister is approaching Elita-1.”

And just like that, her nervousness returned. She must not, _must not_ approach Elita, but she had to waylay Lightbright somehow without it being clear that was what she was doing. She rose, pulling her sleeves over her hands to hide their trembling, and she started to make her way across the room. Lightbright was moving with purpose, her eyes fixed on Elita’s back, and Windblade despaired of reaching her in time for it to appear natural.

Help arrived from an entirely unexpected quarter, and Windblade had never been so happy to hear the cry of, “ _Fire!_ ”

\--

Lockdown shifted in the doorway of the empty store he was loitering in front of. The caravan had been easy to infiltrate, and somehow had escaped being searched at the city gates, despite the lack of flag yesterday evening. Lockdown and his fellow hunters had whisked themselves away into the city, and they soon found an abandoned building covered with dust, ash, and the scorch-marks that meant it had been scored by liquid fire. 

As a temporary shelter and base of operations, it worked. Lockdown and his crew had worked in worse conditions.

It hadn’t taken him long (read: about five minutes) to discover that the tattooed peasant who had halted his advance into the city was not a peasant at all, but rather the ruling lady of the city who was due to marry Starscream in a week’s time. The deception infuriated Lockdown, almost as much as being refused entry had. However, it had changed his plans somewhat. He had sent a message off to his boss that morning, informing him of the change in circumstances--after enthusiastic eavesdropping of the City Watch, it had been discovered that Crackshot was dead, killed by Starscream for the attempted assassination.

That didn’t surprise Lockdown. Crackshot had never been quite subtle enough. It didn’t matter during the war, but it mattered now.

He elected to remain in the city until told otherwise. His boss would want eyes and ears in the city, and Lockdown was good at blending in to the background, and it would give him the opportunity to revenge himself against the lady of the city. 

He was surprised at how quickly the stars aligned for it. The doorway he was leaning in faced a millinery shop that was currently on fire. The city people were used to handling fire, with none of the screams and panic he had anticipated, but it was clear the building was gone. The city firefighters were focusing on the buildings next to it, dousing them with a mixture of water and soil to help keep the wood from lighting, and the lady of the city arrived in a huff, with a shorter one who looked to be a sibling. Their own tattoos made it more likely.

Lockdown sniffed. How primitive.

“Windblade, any people alive in there?” the shorter one yelled over the crackling flames.

The lady of the city shook her head as Lockdown reached over his back to pull out his crossbow. The opportunity was too perfect--Primus himself couldn’t have made it. He nocked one bolt into the string and pulled it tight against the bowstave, taking aim.

“Right,” the shorter one said. “Then it’s simple control.”

Both of them turned until they were standing back-to-back. Lockdown lowered the crossbow until the point of the arrow was pointing downward. He would let their little tableau play out before he killed her. He wanted to know how she managed to burn off the spurs from his boots.

Both witches--that was clear too--raised their arms and pulled them down violently. The fire, gleefully consuming the shell of the millinery shop, initially didn’t change, but then, in front of Lockdown’s eyes, the color shifted from a bright yellow to a dark orange, and the fire began to go down.

Both witches shouted something in a guttural tongue, and the fire rose up in a peak before going dark. Smoke replaced it, and the shorter one turned to face the ruin of the shop. “No fire remains. That was neat, tidy.”

“Approval, Lightbright?” the lady of the city said. “And here I thought I had passed out of your estimation.”

The shorter one shoved the lady of the city a little. “Don’t be mean.”

“Indeed not,” the lady of the city agreed. “We should go inside to see if we can find anything.”

The shorter one needed no urging as they bounded inside, but as Lockdown brought up the crossbow again, the lady of the city lingered outside the shop. “There’s no more risk,” she called to the firefighters up on the roofs of the neighboring shops. “Do you know how this started?”

One of the firefighters on the ground came close, their protective mask against smoke dark with soot. “Not sure,” they huffed, “it was quiet and then fire just _exploded_ out of the doors and windows. We tried to get in to get Master Fabricate out, but the fire wouldn’t let us.”

“Interesting,” the lady of the city said, and Lockdown sighted down the bowstave. He almost had her…

“Had anything changed for Master Fabricate recently?”

The firefighters looked at each other. “We didn’t know him well,” the one on the ground confessed. “He came in with the second caravan last year and set up shop. We were so busy rebuilding we never really got to meet him. If anything changed, it wouldn’t be us who knew.”

The lady of the city took his hand. “Thank you,” she said sincerely, and Lockdown rolled his eyes before tightening his grip on the trigger. “For your service, all of you.”

“Just doing our job,” the firefighter mumbled.

“And you can’t be thanked for that?” The lady of the city smiled. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to see my sister.” She moved forward, and Lockdown squeezed the trigger.

It missed, damn her eyes. It sank into the doorframe of the tipping frame, and the only thing that saved Lockdown from being assailed by the good citizenry was that it was all that was needed to collapse the outer frame. The good citizenry were more preoccupied with the falling frame than what caused it to fall, thank Primus. 

Lockdown pulled himself back into the shadows. He would get another chance.

Inside the ruins of the millinery shop, Windblade was grateful the roof had already fallen down. When the outer walls collapsed, it took nothing else with it.

Lightbright was kneeling on the floor, pulling up charred pieces of wood and the remnants of feathers. “I hadn’t realized what it took to actually _make_ hats,” she said with some disgust. “I thought they collected the fallen feathers and such.”

“Oh no,” said Windblade, who had known. “But there’s no denying that fur and feathers can be warm, which makes them useful in the cold and damp.” Something brilliantly red caught her eye, and she stooped to push wood aside to see what it was. A perfect carmine feather was on the floor, marked with soot but otherwise unharmed. That was interesting.

She picked it up and ran her fingers along the vane of the feather, twitching the soft parts at the top between her fingers. It looked like a flight feather. How had it not been burned when everything else in the shop was? And the color looked familiar, too. Where had she seen it before?

“Ugh,” Lightbright said, “I found poor Master Fabricate.” She allowed the wood she had been holding up to drop, puffing soot all over her skirt. “How hot must the fire have been to cook him like that? And how did this whole neighborhood not go up into a firestorm?”

Windblade’s mind clicked. “I have a suspicion,” she said, “but I can’t say for certain until I verify it. The first fire last week was an accident, but this one...this one was not.”

Lightbright’s mouth dropped open. “An arsonist?” she asked eagerly. 

“Not quite,” Windblade said absently. “Something else.” She looked down at the feather again, and tucked it into her robes. “Come on. Starscream will want a report.”

As they exited the structure, the firefighter bowed. “Anything you would like us to do?”

Windblade glanced over what had been a millinery shop. “Pull down anything left standing. It’s a hazard.”

“Yes, lady.”

“And keep up the good work,” she added, and the firefighters flushed or looked away. 

As she and Lightbright returned to the palace, their fine clothes ruined by ash, soot, and who knew what else, Lightbright was easy and smiling. “So Elita’s here,” she teased, “I’ve never heard that she would go on diplomatic visits before. Perhaps she wishes to interrupt the ceremony.”

The thought made Windblade break out in a cold sweat. “Solus, I hope not,” she blurted, “how terribly awkward, and, and _shameful_.”

“For her or for you?” Lightbright asked, curious at Windblade’s reaction. “It could be very romantic.”

“To do that is to shame the parties getting married. If one of the parties consents to the interruption, it compounds it.” Windblade shook her head. “No, I dearly hope that’s not what she’s here for.”

“She might be here to romance you--.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk about that,” Windblade said, strained. “I have committed myself to marrying Starscream. I will not go back on that.”

Lightbright tilted her head as they walked up the steps leading into the palace. They, by mutual and silent agreement, bypassed the room where the party was still ongoing to head upstairs to the family wing. “Are you scared?”

Windblade gripped the staircase balustrade with more force than necessary. “Terrified,” she admitted. “I don’t know why she’s here, or what she wants. She has a lot to answer for.” A lot of dead people, for starters. Her attempted rape, for another. Supporting Prowl in his idiocy, providing cover for a campaign that relied on being led by a dead leader. 

Manipulating her all those years ago. 

“Everything will be okay,” Lightbright promised. They stopped in front of Windblade’s door. “Don’t fret yourself to death. Starscream wouldn’t like it.”

“Oh, if only because _Starscream_ wouldn’t like it,” Windblade groused. She leaned down and--after brushing it clean--kissed Lightbright’s forehead. “Night, brat.”

“Night,” Lightbright replied, and they parted.

\--

_April 22, 1038  
Iacon_

Starscream opened his door that morning to the concern and outrage of Captain Barricade, Ultra Magnus, and Ravage. Once he saw them, he tried to close the door, but Ravage was too quick and put her foot in the door’s way. “Oh no,” she said, “you will want to hear this.”

“I already don’t want to hear this,” he complained as he pulled the door open again. “Who died?”

“Lockdown,” Ultra Magnus said, clipped.

Starscream goggled at them as they took up residence in his study in the rooms he kept. “I was joking! Seriously, Lockdown’s dead? How can we be sure?”

“Because his corpse is currently in the hospital morgue,” Ravage said as she perched on the edge of his desk. “It was found early this morning, and Hook immediately alerted Captain Barricade, who promptly alerted both of us.” A nod indicated herself and Ultra Magnus. 

“How did he get into the city?” Starscream demanded as he scrubbed his face with his hands. He wasn’t awake enough. He went over and rang the bell to alert the kitchens he required assistance. “I thought he was barred.”

“He managed to infiltrate the Carcerian caravan. With your permission, I would like to conduct interviews with Elita-1’s staff to see if they knew about Lockdown’s identity or not.” Captain Barricade watched him steadily. 

Starscream opened his mouth to demand why that mattered, and then he closed it. If Elita-1’s people had known who Lockdown was and hid him as the caravan entered the city, then that was...bad. If they were themselves deceived, it was an honest mistake. Elita-1 had too checkered a history to be automatically presumed innocent when it came to meddling in Iacon affairs. “Granted, just make sure Ravage or one of her agents is with you at all times.” He looked at Ravage. “Be diplomatic in your choices.”

Ravage bowed ironically.

Starscream returned to the matter at hand. “How did he die?”

“He was burned to death,” Ultra Magnus said. “It’s interesting, because his hands were burned down to the bone, but the rest of his body was merely charred black. There were no other signs of fire in the alley his body was found in.”

“Is this related to the fire from last night?” Starscream asked. 

Ravage and Ultra Magnus exchanged a look. “Not that we are aware of.”

“But an arrow was found at the scene,” Captain Barricade said when it was clear Ravage wasn’t going to say any more, “in the doorframe of the burned shop. The fletchings and size of the crossbow bolt matched arrows we found on Lockdown’s corpse. From some of the firefighters, we learned that the arrow had definitely not been there until after the fire was out.”

Starscream tapped the side table, thinking. Lockdown’s death was strange enough--it sounded like he had held onto whatever had killed him, but the arrow implied a failed assassination. One of the firefighters, or…

“He tried to kill Windblade,” Starscream said flatly.

Ultra Magnus nodded. “Yes, that is the conclusion we came to as well. We’ll need a few days to search the city for Lockdown’s...associates,” Starscream couldn’t hide a grin, only Ultra Magnus could make ‘associates’ sound like ‘shitheads,’ “but with the wedding and those that are still arriving, it is difficult to find them. If they have any sense, they will have fled the city by now.”

“Perhaps,” Starscream murmured. “But Lockdown had a habit of choosing associates that were not possessing of sense. It’s one of the reasons why he was so effective.” He looked up at the three of them. “I will discuss this with Windblade and meet up with you later today. Barricade, do I need to sign any papers showing my consent to your question Elita’s staff?”

“It would be helpful,” Captain Barricade admitted.

“Right. Hold on, then. Ravage, Ultra Magnus, is there anything else I need to know at this moment?” When they both shook their heads, Starscream dismissed them all. He had needed to speak to Windblade in any case--he had something for her, and since it was for her safety, this was as good an excuse as any to offer it.

He took the small necklace box from his desk drawer and went over to their connecting door. He knocked once--it _was_ early--and entered. Windblade looked up from her vanity desk, where she was writing a letter in Camien. He suspected she was writing that ‘strongly-worded letter’, because she was frowning at it.

When she looked up, however, the frown fell away for a small smile. The sunlight coming through her window gilded her skin with touches of gold, and her eyes shone in welcome. Starscream felt his spark squeeze in his chest, but it didn’t show on his face. “Feeling better?”

“I did not feel bad,” she said, “well, except for Master Fabricate. Being burned alive is not an easy death.”

“Too many people have died in too short a time,” Starscream said as he leaned against the sideboard. Windblade’s eyes tracked how he put down the necklace box, and confusion knotted her brows. “Do you have any theories for why that is?”

“Are you accusing me of something?” she asked warily.

“No,” he said. “But you’ve observed both of those fires. The investigators haven’t found any evidence of arson, but they weren’t accidents, either.”

Windblade sighed and opened one of her vanity desk drawers. She drew out a scarlet feather, long and beautifully formed, and offered to him. When he took it, the softness of the feathers caught on the calluses of his fingertips. “I found this in the wreck of the millinery shop.”

“It’s a feather. Why wouldn’t you find it there?” He turned the feather over in his hands. 

“It was the only feather that survived the conflagration.” She propped her chin on her hand as she watched him. “I’ve tried to burn it myself.” She summoned a small flame with a snap of her fingers, and with her free hand, she pointed the flame at the feather. The feather took on darker red, practically burgundy, but when she took it away, the feather returned to its rich scarlet. “I’m beginning to believe you were right about our guests.”

Starscream stared at the feather. Guests…? It clicked home, and he nearly yelped. “ _No!_ ”

“Yes,” Windblade said. “I haven’t confirmed it yet, but it fits. Well, sort of.”

“But they’re not--why aren’t there more fires?”

“That, I’m not sure about,” Windblade admitted. “I have to look into it a bit further, but it does explain why they were so comfortable with me from the beginning. And they obey you.”

“What a dreadful blessing,” he muttered. “What an addition to our menagerie.” He stretched out a hand to offer it to Victorion, draped over the edge of the bed. Victorion lifted her head to politely sniff his fingers before she put her head back down again. “That should please your mother.”

When he looked at Windblade, she wore a wicked grin. “Oh, I _know_ ,” she agreed.

He stood up and brought the necklace box over. Her hair was loosely braided down her back, and she lifted her chin to meet his eyes as he ran his thumbs over her cheekbones and down to her jaw and neck. She closed her eyes when he kissed her forehead. “I love it when you’re malicious,” he murmured.

Her throat vibrated with a quiet chuckle, and her eyes opened again. “I picked it up from you.”

“Even better,” he said, and kissed her.

The angle was a little awkward, but she wrapped a hand around the nape of his neck as he ran his teeth over her lower lip. She was pleasantly warm, and he could feel her pulse pick up under his fingers. She wouldn’t have allowed this a year ago. Even after saving his life, she was jumpy with shows of casual affection.

He released her, and she made a small noise of protest. “I have something to give you,” he said. He reached out and flicked the catch of the box, and he lifted the gold chain. “It’s a safety charm.”

She moved her head forward and out of his light grasp. “Another ruby? Will you not be content until I am dripping with jewelry?” She was teasing him, and he tugged on her braid in response. “It is lovely.”

The chain was thin braids of gold, with a small triangular-shaped ruby dangling from the center of the chain. It was more substantial than the other ruby necklace he had given her--necessary, for the spells written into the gold and ruby--and as she lifted her hair so that Starscream could fasten it around her neck, she saw it was almost a choker. “It looks familiar.”

“It was created by that smith of yours, what’s her name---Steelcast. I told her I needed a safety charm that would be subtle and just look like jewelry. This is what she came up with.” The ruby rested in the hollow of Windblade’s throat. “She has the metal washes that will renew the spells.”

Windblade ran her thumb over her contraception charm. “She’s gifted. Starscream, why are you giving this to me _now?_ ”

“Do you remember Lockdown?”

Windblade made a face in the mirror. “That bounty hunter? Obviously.”

“He made his way into the city.”

Windblade turned in her chair to look up at him. “Solus, really?”

He nodded. “He managed to infiltrate Elita’s caravan.”

She sighed a little. “Oh dear.”

“Indeed. When the wreckage of the millinery shop was examined, there was an arrow in what remained of the doorframe. Those same arrows were found on Lockdown’s corpse.”

She blinked and frowned. “Corpse?”

“He had been burned to death,” Starscream said. “His hands had been burned to the bone, but the rest of his body was…”

“You don’t have to tell me,” she said. “I know.”

He looked down at her and reached out to twine a loose piece of hair between his fingers. “So they are very protective of you.”

“Apparently,” she agreed. “So why do I require a safety charm?”

“You have a tendency to escape or pawn off your bodyguard to your sister and then plunge into dangerous situations,” he said flatly. “Until we can find you another guard that won’t allow you escape them so easily, this charm will warn you when you’re in danger.”

“You’re the one who said that the more effective I become, the more people will want to kill me,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but I have magic that won’t let me die,” he retorted, “and your magic does not do the same. Also, you are not a warrior, and _I_ am.” He held up a hand. “I may have managed to teach you how to shoot this winter and you might be able to defend yourself, but that does not make you a warrior.” 

She made a face at him. “I hate it when you make sense.”

“Then you must hate most of the time.” He tucked her hair behind her ear. “As for Elita…” She tensed under his hand, “be careful. I’m not sure why she’s here in person, but I’m certain she means to make mischief.”

“Yes, I believe that as well.” She hesitated before she added, “She may try to get me alone.”

“I know. It’s what I would do.” He released her. “Don’t shame me.”

“I would never,” she protested.

“I know.” He kissed her forehead. “What are you doing today?”

“Working in the greenhouses,” she said. “I’m pulling together some bouquets for the party tonight.” She grimaced again. “Two parties in a row is exhausting.”

“Poor princess,” he drawled. “I’m tied up in meetings all day. Metalhawk is full of plans for developing a community park for public gardening, which I have been informed you approve of.”

“Yes,” she said defiantly.

“Well, I’ll listen in any case,” he shook his head. “You green people.” 

She tugged on his earlobe until he lowered his face so that she could kiss him. “Yes,” she said, “ _we green people._ ” 

\--

Bumblebee tapped the end of his cane against the low glass of the door leading to the princess’ personal greenhouse. He didn’t want to startle her, and when she glanced over her shoulder at him, she smiled and nodded to him. That was as good an invitation as any.

As always, the scent of too many flowers in a small space nearly bowled him over. He breathed shallowly through his mouth until he adjusted, and then he approached the princess. She had already pushed out a bench for him to sit on; she never needed telling when his leg was bothering him worse than usual.

“I’m sorry,” she said as he sat. “I know the flowers are overwhelming. I don’t notice anymore.”

“You and every other green witch,” Bumblebee said with good humor. “Plants that make the rest of us retch don’t even register with you all.”

“I can’t claim that honor,” she returned, her eyes sparkling. “Asafetida bothers me deeply.”

“Yes, well, it deserves to have ‘fetid’ in its name.” He looked her over. She wore what she termed her ‘work clothes,’ a pair of loose red cotton trousers, tucked into boots, and covered with a knee-length gray robe tied with a black belt. Pollen marked her sleeve cuffs, and Bumblebee sighed. “I assume you have a way of getting pollen out of your clothes?”

“Oh yes, I was taught special.” She raised her eyebrows as she returned to her task, pulling soft, open blossoms into a large bouquet. The colors were a variety of pink, light blue, and white, and Bumblebee hoped they were only lightly scented. “I assume you did not come here to exchange laundry tips.”

“No.” Bumblebee wrapped his hands on the top handle of his cane. “I have come to ask your permission to address Princess Lightbright.”

The princess’ hands stilled. “She is already married.”

Bumblebee blinked and then started to laugh. “No, I didn’t mean to address her like I was courting her. No, I would like to accompany her to the party tonight. It would be useful for her to have an escort, and I’m very good at defusing situations.”

“Yes, that’s true,” the princess mused. “I give you my consent, provided you get hers. She’s an adult in all the ways that matter, and I cannot act as her guardian would.”

Bumblebee chuckled. “You could have just said that your consent depended on hers. I promise I see her as an adult.”

Windblade smiled. “I will send her a corsage to wear on her lapel. Are you wearing black or yellow?”

“Black,” Bumblebee confirmed. “With yellow lining.”

“I can work with that,” Windblade said. “And thank you for your concern.”

Bumblebee inclined his head. “With your permission, I will go gain her consent.”

Windblade flicked her fingers at him in dismissal, a gesture she had learned from Starscream, and Bumblebee left. He knew where the Camien princess could be found that day; in preparation for the grand party that night, all of the noble and international company had disdained any kind of activity in expectation of dancing all night.

Princess Lightbright was surprised when he was ushered in by one of the chamber-servants. She was sewing something--so it was Camien habit to remain busy, instead of an idiosyncrasy of the Princess Windblade--but she put it aside when Bumblebee bowed to her. “Forgive me, my lord, but I don’t know your name,” Princess Lightbright confessed when Bumblebee straightened.

“It’s Master Bumblebee, Your Highness,” Bumblebee said. “Lord Starscream _did_ offer me a title, but I turned him down. I have no interest in it.”

Princess Lightbright examined him with more interest. “In Caminus, when one is offered a title, one rarely turns it down.”

Bumblebee shrugged. “I’ve never been interested in that, Your Highness,” he said cheerfully. “Before the war, I was just a courier. After, I don’t see the point in changing my status.”

“Fascinating,” the princess replied. “May I ask what I can do for you?”

Bumblebee gifted her with his most charming smile. “I wondered if I could accompany you to the party this evening. It is not required, but I thought you might appreciate a companion.”

The princess looked nervous. “Er--Master Bumblebee, I am flattered but I am already--.”

“My lady princess,” Bumblebee interrupted, “I am not interested in courting you, I promise. I was merely under the impression that at such crushes that tonight is likely to be, it will be difficult to stay close to your sister’s side and that you might appreciate having a companion. That is all.”

Princess Lightbright dropped her eyes. “Was I that obvious?”

“Only to someone looking for it, my lady princess.”

“Well,” Princess Lightbright said finally, “if that is your only intention, I would be honored to have your company tonight.”

Bumblebee smiled more widely. “I am gratified, Your Highness.”

\--

Windblade smiled as the ambassadors, Council members, and other leaders of the city entered the large ballroom that played host to this rather large party. Lightbright arrived with Bumblebee, and Windblade’s court smile softened into something sweeter. Lightbright beamed back, and they went down into the ballroom.

Starscream moved over slightly to say in her ear, “Is that your work?”

“It’s not going that way,” Windblade murmured back, “and Lightbright needs a friend.”

Starscream conceded the point.

Elita, unlike the night before, arrived on time. She was dressed as a dandy, something that made Windblade a little curious. When she had been in Carcer, Elita often wore variations of the Carcer military uniform--loose breeches tucked into boots, with structured jackets and crisp under-shirts--but for this event, Elita wore tight black silk trousers (still tucked into glossy boots), a rose satin waistcoat, and an open black silk coat with rose stain lining. The crisp white shirt was the same, but the neckcloth was glossy black silk. The buttons of the waistcoat were wrought silver. 

It was very strange. 

When she looked at Starscream, she wondered if Elita had deliberately dressed as foppishly as she did to be a contrast. Starscream wore a heavily embroidered scarlet closed coat that ended at his knees, with silver silk trousers cut to the ankle and matching scarlet slippers. His hair was pulled back in a horsetail, and she thought he looked magnificent. So did he, from the way he tugged on his cuffs. 

The comparison made Windblade uneasy. Why was Elita there? Why this whole charade? She was the essence of polite dismissal, from the nods she gave to Starscream and his Council. It was clear how little she thought of them.

No, the weight of her regard was saved for Windblade alone as she bowed in greeting. Windblade ordered herself to remain calm and serene, even though she was nervous as she offered her hand to Elita for the traditional hand-kiss of greeting. “Liege General,” she said.

“My lady princess,” Elita returned. 

Then she took her leave. Windblade did not watch her go, all too aware of Starscream’s gaze on her. Was he testing her fidelity? Or did he want to see how she reacted to the presence of her former lover?

Windblade thought fleetingly that Starscream should meet Override and Moonracer to have a better baseline for her reactions, and it cheered her up. It allowed her to give a more natural smile to Nightra when she arrived. Metalhawk had already arrived for the night’s festivities, and he had pulled Bumblebee and Lightbright into a conversational knot. 

Finally, everyone arrived, and Starscream nodded to the musicians. They had been playing quietly during the arrival of the guests, but now that they had a captive audience, they struck up a slightly louder song, a minuet. It would be expected for Windblade and Starscream to open the dancing, despite their dislike of the minuet. It was a slow enough dance, an appropriate choice to open the ball.

Windblade’s layered skirts flared as she turned and stepped in time with Starscream, uncomfortably aware of all eyes upon her. She resolutely did not look at Elita. If she did, she would...she wasn’t sure _what_ she would do, but it would be embarrassing and fuel for gossip, and she had no desire to be part of either of those things.

When it ended, Starscream drew her off the floor as the other guests filled it. “Are you all right?” he murmured to her, and she stiffened at the accusation in his voice.

“I’m fine,” she said. 

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he warned her, and his eyes were hard. “Don’t forget what she’s done.”

“You think I need reminding?” she asked, her voice tight. “I never wanted a massacre as a betrothal gift.”

He eyed her suspiciously, and finally shook his head. “You’re going to break your own heart.”

“Better I do it than someone else,” she flung at him, and she turned on her heel to stalk away. He watched her go, an uncomfortable realization settling in his stomach. His bad mood intensified when he saw how Elita’s eyes tracked Windblade on her journey to one of the refreshment tables, and he busied himself with flagging down a servant for something to drink.

The entire night was a torment for Windblade. She struggled with the urge to confront Elita and proclaim her guilt to the assembled ambassadors and Council members, but another urge was to fall to her knees in front of Elita and weep. Thankfully, she did not have to make that decision as Elita stayed away from her. The closest they ever came was when Elita was dancing with Lightbright and Windblade with Breakdown, and as Elita whirled away from her, Windblade thought she caught some of the scent Elita loved so much--sandalwood and jasmine.

When the clocks struck two, she gauged she could leave without it causing comment, and she did so. Starscream and Elita, on different sides of the ballroom, both watched her leave. Most of the company was deep into their cups and did not notice enough to remember to gossip about it later, but Starscream saw it.

Elita had assisted in that whole farce the previous year to manipulate Windblade into a place where she would need to be rescued, he reflected as he left after his betrothed. That the plan failed was due to Windblade being underestimated by everyone involved, including himself for not seeing the plan sooner. 

Windblade had never wanted to the be reason people died, and after Elita’s part in...everything...had been made clear, Windblade hadn’t rushed to Elita’s side. Elita, who had risked so much for one outcome. Was Elita wondering why? Did she know how much Windblade knew about what she had done? Was that why Elita--notoriously circumspect in international circles--had arrived to attend the wedding?

Too many questions and not enough answers. He suspected that if he posed any of these questions to Windblade herself, she would lash out in anger, likely because she didn’t have the answer herself and disliked it.

All he could do was wait and see. That was the only thing to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love your comments, and this chapter is a doozy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ehehehehehehehehehe._
> 
> Content warnings for drowning, emotional manipulation, discussions of rape, and discussion of injuries. 
> 
> As always, I love your reviews and your thoughts!

**CHAPTER FOUR: HELP ME TO BELIEVE IN YOU**

_ Iacon _ _   
_ _ April 23, 1038 _

Windblade opened the bag of feed she had collected from the cooks and started to sprinkle seeds, dried fruits, and shreds of meat on the grass. The swans immediately jumped from the water to eat what she was laying down with every evidence of enjoyment, and once the small bag was empty, she leaned back on her hands in the still-damp grass to watch them eat.

How, by Solus, had she not seen it before? Even putting aside the brilliant scarlet of the cob’s feathers, and the orange-tinted feathers of the pen, they were larger than swans she had seen. They had webbed feet (something she still wondered at), with longer talons than she had ever seen on a swan. 

“I believe it is time we spoke truly, you and I,” she informed the birds as they finished their meal. Instead of sliding back into the water, they settled into the grass near her feet and watched her with those startling grey eyes--the color of ash. “You are not swans.”

The cob and the pen both shook their heads. 

“That is another thing,” she said, almost idly, “you know our body language meanings. Birds typically have their own body language, so the fact that you use ours is...interesting. You want me to understand you, don’t you?”

The pen flapped her wings before tucking them back. Windblade smiled to herself; it was as good as a ‘yes.’ She sat up and dried her palms on her skirt before she asked, “You are both firebirds, aren’t you?”

The cob and pen chortled, opening their mouths to show the teethed tongues that made swans so feared as eldritch abominations. Flame burst into being along the tips of their wings and flared into secondary wings when they spread to their full wingspan. “You were Solus’ companions,” Windblade said as she stared at the display. “You loved her, didn’t you?”

The flames died and they looked at her more solemnly. “Is it true, what Lightbright believes? The seals between the realms are weakening?”

The cob honked angrily, which sounded like a ‘no.’ “If not, then why are you  _ here? _ You’ve caused so much damage. The first fire, I can believe was an accident.” She nodded to the pen. “You ended up in there and were frightened, weren’t you? The flames are something you can control, so when you get scared…”

The pen indicated, with bated wings and briefly hiding her face under a wing, that what Windblade guessed was true. It still did not justify the deaths associated with the fire, but Windblade suspected that the firebirds, despite being Solus’ companions and able to communicate and understand, were still at their heart animals, and did not fully realize what they had done. 

“But the second fire,” she continued, “that one I am still trying to make sense of. The milliner saw you,” she said to the cob, “and--tried to kill you for your feathers?” The cob’s head bobbed up and down energetically, “So you defended yourself...by killing Master Fabricate.”

The cob’s wings lifted and dropped in a bird shrug. Windblade opened her mouth to scold him, and then closed it. It was unfair to put her morality on a fantastical creature who had spent centuries in a different realm from this one. “And Lockdown? The one with a metal gauntlet for a hand?”

The pen rose to her feet and hissed as she spread her wings out. Windblade frowned, attempting to make sense of what the pen was communicating, but a quietly smooth voice said from behind her, “I suspect it was because he tried to kill you and they saw it. I do not know much about the lore of firebirds, but you have a tendency to inspire loyalty in those you care for.”

Windblade got to her feet and turned to meet Elita. Her hands were sweaty and shaking slightly, and she hid them in her skirt. “Oh?” she asked politely. “You know this for certain?”

Elita stopped just far enough away from the firebirds that they could not immediately attack her. It was a good decision, since both birds were attempting to intimidate her. “More than certain, my dear,” Elita said. “But I suspect you of fishing for compliments. You know the effect you have on people.” Then she smiled, her private smile.

Windblade’s knees felt loose and disconnected from her body. “I am not as effective in Cybertron as I was in Carcer,” she said, almost defiantly, “otherwise I might have been able to change certain events last year.”

“Charm alone cannot soothe the wounds of a prolonged civil war,” Elita replied, “and Carcer is more stable than Cybertron.”

Windblade wanted to argue that, but she couldn’t, not seriously. “Cybertron is a work in progress,” Windblade said finally. “But you have not assisted with that work.” It was as bold as she dared. Old feelings were making themselves known, even as she despised herself for them. It had been ten years. She wasn’t the naive young lady who had gone to Carcer all those years ago. She had seen dreadful things, worked against horrible diseases, and held children as they were born and as they died. Elita should not be able to win her so quickly. 

Elita shrugged. “Cybertron is not my responsibility. I have found that a fractured Cybertron serves my interests, and I was never one to support Decepticons. I know you only ever heard of some of their atrocities second and third hand, but we did take in Autobot survivors. It would have been...immoral, to support the architect of the Praxian massacre.”

“Autobots were guilty of their own share of crimes,” Windblade snapped, “and I was a victim of some of them.”

Elita reached to touch Windblade’s cheek. “I heard. I am sorry for it. You should never have been involved in their conflict.”

At Elita’s touch, Windblade’s skin flushed and fizzed. No, she berated herself, do not show Elita how much you are still impacted by her. She will use it. “The city of Iacon and Metroplex needed me,” she said steadily, much more steadily than she felt. “I could not turn my back on them.”

“It is a shame you were not born an era ago,” Elita agreed, her dark eyes sad. “You could have been a hero from lore, chasing away the darkness. But we live in this era, and this era is not kind to would-be heroes.”

“Is that an observation or a warning?” Windblade asked tartly. 

Elita laughed a little, and her thumb stroked Windblade’s cheekbone. “Neither, my spark. I would hate to see you crushed because you found out there were some you could not save.”

Too late, Windblade thought in a desperate attempt to ignore how her spark had leapt at Elita’s use of her nickname. “Why are you here, Elita?”

“To see if you were happy,” Elita said smoothly. “When I stopped receiving your letters, I lost all way of being able to tell. Here, on the eve--so to speak--of your wedding, I wished to learn it for myself.”

Windblade frowned. “I only stopped writing you stopped writing to me.”

“I can promise you that I did not,” Elita replied. “The last letter I received from you was from July of 1028.”

“I kept writing letters,” Windblade said slowly as she tried to figure it out, “I sent out letters through that fall and the next spring. The last letter I had from you was in September.” She looked down to meet Elita’s eyes. “You really stopped hearing from me?”

“I cannot lie,” Elita reminded her.

“Mother,” Windblade growled. “She must have intercepted them.”

“I did suspect her,” Elita agreed, her fingers playing with the opening of her light coat, “but I could never find a diplomatic way to accuse her. Relations between our countries were too vital to risk suspending them...or so I was told.” She sighed slightly. “I wanted to ride to your court and kidnap you, you know. Although I doubted it could be abduction if you were willing.”

“I would have gone with you,” Windblade blurted. Her cheeks burned in embarrassment. Elita was a truth-teller, and Windblade had sometimes wondered if Elita could spread her gift around to make people automatically tell the truth around her. “I mean--.”

“You would have?” Elita inquired, her eyes alight. “I could take you with me when I leave. You would always be welcome in Carcer.”

“I,” Windblade fumbled for the right words, “I don’t think I could, and I should not, and--.”

Elita laid a single finger against Windblade’s mouth, and Windblade went mute as if Elita had bespelled her. “You do not have to give me an answer now,” Elita said softly. “Just...consider it. You think so carefully of your duty and look where it has gotten you. I would give you so much more.” As Windblade stood there, spellbound, Elita leaned in and brushed Windblade’s lips with a gentle kiss.

It was barely a kiss, more like the promise of one. As Windblade stared after her, Elita left the garden and out of sight. It was the cob who brought Windblade back to the present, when he honked in furious anger and darted his head forward to pinch her thigh with his beak. She yelped and jumped away from him. “That wasn’t necessary,” she scolded him, “not necessary at  _ all. _ ”

\--

_ Iacon _ _   
_ _ April 25, 1038 _

“Do all fire witches love heights?” Bumblebee asked with amusement as Lightbright spread her arms to steady herself as she walked across the flat part of the top of the wall. “From what I hear, your sister spends a lot of time up here too.”

“Well, Cybertron--or at least, this part of Cybertron--is a lot flatter than home,” Lightbright explained as she shifted so that the wind struck her face and pushed her short curls back. “Even when it’s hot at home, it’s cool up high thanks to the wind. And it’s a good way to keep track of things like wildfires. We can see them from the walls.”

“Do wildfires matter to a community of fire witches?” Bumblebee’s foot slipped on a damp piece of stone, and he caught himself with his cane. He took a moment to breathe in sharply--since his leg wound, he had feared falling down more than almost anything else.

Lightbright hadn’t noticed. “Well,” she started, and then she shrugged. “We tend to work with fire, not against it. When there’s a wildfire, once it’s strong enough, all we can do is try to, um, direct it. We can’t stop it.”

“Not even grassfires?” Bumblebee asked. “They don’t burn that hot.”

“It’s not a question of temperature,” Lightbright explained as she jumped down off the wall. “It’s a question of strength. With wood wildfires and everything, yeah, heat matters there, but when the grasslands are burning, we still can’t stop them. Not if they’ve consumed enough.” She tilted her head at Bumblebee. “Why so curious? Have you had a fire problem?”

“Largely an urban one,” he said dryly as they navigated themselves down and off the wall. “And I presume urban fires burn differently.”

“A lot of things people use in cities, like varnishes or paints, can be accelerants,” Lightbright agreed. 

“But we have a lot of growing things outside the city now, and one bad storm can spark a fire. It would be nice to know if your sister could snap her fingers and suppress it.”

Lightbright frowned as she offered a hand to Bumblebee on the narrow stair. He took it. “We try not to suppress  _ too  _ much fire,” she said cautiously. “Fire needs to burn. If we don’t let it burn, then we create the conditions that lead to firestorms. When it gets to be that bad, even we can’t direct it all that much. Natural events,” she took on a slightly different tone, indicating she was quoting someone, “have their own magic and power. We can only work with it.”

“Are you scared of fire?” he asked as they came down to ground level and he let go of her.

Lightbright laughed. “As well as be scared of my own blood,” she informed him. “I know fire as well as I know myself. I know when it can be controlled, fought, or left alone. What I am afraid of,” she shivered slightly, “is flooding. No true daughter of Solus loves water.”

Bumblebee’s eyebrows shot up. “Really.”

Lightbright nodded vigorously. “Water can come out of nowhere and sweep everything away. Worse, it can linger and become a disease pit. It melds with dirt to create mud that gets everywhere. I don’t even like to put my head underwater when I bathe.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Bumblebee admitted. “The city I was born in was crisscrossed with canals. We got to know the water’s moods and its actions. We could guess when an event would result in a flash flood and could prepare for it. We also had huge ditches and dikes to help drain off standing water.”

Lightbright shuddered. “I don't mind storms. They’re a combination of heat and cold. But floods are something else.” She bowed to Bumblebee. “I have enjoyed your company,” she said, a little awkwardly, “but I have another engagement that I must attend to.”

Bumblebee nodded his dismissal, turning over her distaste for water in his mind. He knew Princess Windblade could swim, that that was how she met with Metroplex, and she did not appear to fear water. Well, perhaps she did and it was a monumental effort for her to go to Metroplex. He would not make any judgements until he had learned further.

Lightbright stole across the palace courtyard to the inside, and from there to Windblade’s private garden. She knew Windblade would be out, working with the healers to plant a field’s worth of medicinal herbs--her approaching wedding did not mean she wasn’t working. It was the best time to approach Metroplex for what Lightbright needed to know.

The garden was calm and idyllic, except for the two swans--although if Windblade was to be believed, they were not swans but firebirds. Lightbright doubted it. No firebird would have the disguise of a waterfowl. It would be...anathema.

When she got to the water’s edge, she looked out on the springs dubiously. Windblade swam to Metroplex, but she didn’t know how to swim and wasn’t about to begin. With a quiet sigh, she knelt to put both of her hands in the water. “I don’t know how to swim,” she said, “so how would you care to do this?”

The springs, normally bubbling quietly, stilled entirely and took on a glint, almost like ice. When Lightbright retracted her hands, the water near the shore’s edge took on that same glint. Lightbright stared at it, and then she kicked off her shoes and placed her overcoat on the ground. When she took a step onto the water, it held her weight. 

Where the water stopped, she hesitated with some uncertainty. What next?

The question was answered when the water disappeared beneath them and she dropped straight down.  The water caught her on the way down to slow her descent, but she still screamed. Finally--there was no other word for it--the water  _ spat _ her out onto a soft sandy bank. She sat up slowly as she tried to catch her breath, and she saw the lights of Metroplex from his source spring almost immediately. “Well then,” she gasped, “I’m here.”  _ Do your worst. _

The lights flared a brilliant scarlet, and Lightbright’s magic reached out to Metroplex’s. Her vision washed out in a flash of crimson, and she was overwhelmed by the strength of Metroplex’s magic. She felt a slight pressure in her face, and when something damp dripped onto her lips, she licked them and tasted blood.

That was the last physical thing she was aware of before her mind folded under the weight of Metroplex’s.

She had no idea how much time passed in that cavern as Metroplex taught her the exact magic required to perform the bonding ritual. Windblade had her own part before the bond could be made, but apparently she already knew what she must do. Lightbright’s part was far more complicated. 

When Metroplex released her, she wavered and sat down with a thump on the sand. Her head spun and she could only see colors as streaks, with nothing clarifying into a clear image. “How am I supposed to get back up there?” she mumbled as she massaged her temples with her fingers.

She had no warning before the ground she sat on threw her up and into the water ceiling. The water itself propelled her upward, which did not help with her disorientation, until it pushed her into the air. She landed back in the water with a loud splash, and she struggled to get back to the air again. The water caught on her sleeves and dragged her downwards.

She couldn’t swim and couldn’t breathe. As her clothes became wet, the weight dragged her down further. She was going to die in her sister’s garden.

She was aware of the water rippling against her, and then two arms wrapped around her and dragged her upwards. She gulped in air when her head broke the surface, and when she was dragged out of the water, she got in enough air to begin sobbing. 

“Ssh,” her rescuer hummed and held her close. Lightbright glanced at them and saw it was Windblade, her hair strewn askew and showing the streaks of hair that had changed color. Her sobbing took on a higher pitch as Windblade cradled her. 

How could she have forgotten that Windblade knew her fears? She clung to her older sister with all her strength as she wailed, and Windblade rocked her gently until Lightbright’s sobs began to quiet. She still held on, grateful for the opportunity to  _ be _ held and dreading when Windblade would let her go.

When she could speak, she whispered, “Do you remember the last time you held me like this?”

She felt Windblade chuckle. “You have professed your love for Sister Rust Dust, and she had turned you down. Gently, I noticed, but still turned you down.”

“I couldn’t understand  _ why _ ,” Lightbright said, her fear dissipating in the flood of reminiscences. “She said I was too young. I was sixteen, she was twenty.”

“But now that you’re twenty-one, you understand?”

Lightbright nodded. “Still, it hurt for so long.”

Windblade pushed Lightbright’s hair away from her face, heat pouring from her touch. Now that Lightbright was paying attention, her clothes were dry too. “I wish I could do that,” Lightbright complained as she nestled into Windblade’s chest. “No other fire witch can do that--control just heat without fire.”

“It’s part of my magic,” Windblade said. “I don’t fully understand it, but in the ritual we performed last year, Solus told me you can’t have life magic without fire magic.” She shrugged slightly. “The fact that you can do  _ what _ you do is proof of your creativity and ingenuity.”

Lightbright smiled. Windblade was never stinting with compliments for other people, but it never took away her sincerity. “I wish the priests had let you teach,” she mused, “you have a different way of approaching our magics.”

“I had enough to do,” Windblade replied, “and I did teach in the Healing Halls. And I think they were afraid I would teach you lot bad habits.”

“Not likely,” Lightbright snorted. “Do you miss the Temple?”

Windblade’s hand paused in stroking Lightbright’s hair. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “I like being busy and useful, studying and all that. But here I  _ am _ useful. I work in the fields with the other farmers, and they don’t treat me like a princess. Well, when I get covered in mud because it started to rain but seeds still need to be planted, it’s hard to see me as a princess. I do miss the Temple library. We’re building ours up, and I think Starscream is cogitating plans to create a printing shop, but it’s still not the same.” She looked down at her, more affection emanating from her than what Lightbright had seen her entire trip. “Do you?”

“I was ready to leave the Temple,” Lightbright confided. “I wanted--still do--to be able to choose what work rosters I sign my name to. I don’t like working in the gardens or the stillroom. I’d rather spend my time in the Healing Halls or the smithy. And I’m ready to live alone. We never had a room to ourselves during our training.”

“It took me a long time to get used to the quiet,” Windblade’s hand resumed stroking Lightbright’s hair. Her hair was drying slowly, largely because she had let it grow out the last year of her training instead of keeping the short cut favored by the priests. Sparkstalker had mentioned once how much he liked her longer hair. “But then I was traveling, and that comes with its own complications.” She made a face. “Dirt in my bedroll, for one.”

“Eww,” Lightbright said.

“And struggling to feel clean and all that,” Windblade added. “I don’t mind that part of staying in one place. It’s nice, in a way, to have a place that is mine and will not change, even when I depart for some time. I always had the sense people went through my rooms when I was gone. Nothing was ever missing, but it wasn’t how I organized it. I stopped keeping important items in my rooms when I left after the second time.”

Lightbright considered it. Mother had kept a closer eye on Windblade and her activities, more than anyone guessed at the time. Was Mother so frightened that Windblade would do something she couldn’t control? “Mother…?”

“I believe so. I recently discovered she controlled my correspondence,” Windblade said, her voice nearly flat. “Why not check my rooms for any signs of a potential flight or marriage?”

Lightbright sat up and out of Windblade’s hold. “She really kept letters from you?”

“And ensured my letters were not sent,” Windblade shrugged before leaning back on her hands. “In hindsight, it may have been for the best--at least, for that relationship.” She struggled briefly, before she said, “I found out from Elita.”

Always eager for gossip, Lightbright turned to face her sister. “Oh? You finally spoke to her?”

“She came to me, in private,” Windblade said. “She managed to sidestep--what I asked her, she’s always been good at that. She’s a truth-teller, so she had to find a way to remain truthful while still in control of what she said.”

“That’s a pretty way to say ‘deceptive.’” Lightbright wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her chin on her knees. 

Windblade shook her head. “She wouldn’t consider it deceptive.”

“A lie of omission is still a lie,” Lightbright reminded her. “You told me that once.”

“It doesn’t matter, but…” Windblade hesitated. “Please don’t tell Starscream, not unless my safety or his is at stake.”

“I promise,” Lightbright said instantly.

“She wants me to run away with her, to Carcer.”

Lightbright’s mouth dropped. “Is she serious?!”

Windblade nodded. “I don’t...it is not honorable. She claims I should not have to worry about that, not when I’ve done so much for other people.”

Lightbright was fascinated. Windblade had always behaved impeccably at home, something that hurt Hot Shot’s credibility when he and his faction spread lies about her sexual behavior. Lightbright had always thought it was the Temple training that led Windblade to being so discreet, but now she wondered. Had it  _ not _ been discretion that kept Windblade above reproach? Then no wonder she was so offended by Hot Shot’s marriage. It hadn’t just been the hypocrisy (though that was what scorched Lightbright the most), but the fact that Hot Shot had been so dishonorable in his dealings with Thunderblast and Mother. 

Thunderblast had deserved a full, royal welcome into the family and a Court disclosure of their engagement, a way for Mother to say that the marriage, as unequal as it was, had her full support. Lightbright knew that Hot Shot had his reasons for such haste, and it hadn’t been pregnancy, as some of the Court had speculated at the time. Still, he should have done better by Thunderblast.

The dishonor he did to Mother was obvious.

“Are you going to do it?” Lightbright asked, her voice hushed. If Windblade said ‘yes,’ then Lightbright would feel resentment at learning that ridiculous ritual, but if it made Windblade happy…

“I don’t know,” Windblade said softly. “But I don’t think so. So much of what happened last year cannot be undone, and I don’t want to move backward, only forward. Still, I’ll see if I can keep her dangling in an effort to get some answers.”

Lightbright pushed herself forward until she could wrap her arms around her older sister. “You’ll do what’s best,” she whispered, and kissed Windblade’s cheek. “You always do.”

\--

_ April 26, 1038 _ _   
_ _ Iacon _

It was a quiet afternoon in the library in the palace, with late spring sunlight slanting across the wooden floorboards and turning the room comfortably warm as Windblade and Starscream sat over the city’s accounts. Windblade cared about the money so she knew where she could invest the surplus, and Starscream cared about it because of the loan payments the city had to make.

As ugly as discussions could get about money, they were in remarkable accord. Starscream did not have to explain why he had applied for loans from the royal bank of Caminus and the state bank of Eukaris, and Windblade understood how to create a forecasting report and build a budget based on it.

The only real question Windblade had was about the loan agreement from Eukaris. The interest rate was astronomical, especially for such a small--considering it was for a city--loan. She put it down and tapped the table to get Starscream’s attention. “What happened here?”

Starscream glanced at it. “It was the first summer I was in power. We suffered a terrible fire that took out most of our seed supplies, and I needed to ensure everyone could eat. A catastrophe followed by a hard winter would have made me very dead.”

“Have you considered trying to renegotiate it?” she inquired. “Now that the success of the city has been established?”

“It’s been on my list, but I haven’t had the time yet.”

She dropped her chin into her hand and looked at him. “Are we taking up Fatespinner Blackarachnia’s offer?”

Starscream copied her, amusement beginning to swirl within him. “I do think we deserve  _ something _ of a honeymoon, don’t you?”

“I’d like to renegotiate this,” she told him. “I have connections into the ruling class of Eukaris that I have no problem leveraging in this, but,” she hesitated before she added, “if I do this, I need your full authority behind me. No going back on it just because you’re contrary.”

“Would I do that?” he asked mockingly.

When her gaze didn’t soften, he said, “What did you have in mind?”

“It’s simple. I will tell them that while I understand they felt the need to insure their risk in investing in the city--since the loan is not in your name, but in the city’s--but since last year, our projections and actual crop yield have exceeded our estimates. With that in mind, it seems...unwise,” she drew out the word delicately, “to spend so much of our available cash on a loan instead of reinvesting into the city and furthering our own cash flow. Added to that, if they are not amenable to renegotiation, then I will be more than happy to present this to the House of Nobles with the observation that such an interest rate would be seen to be predatory--understandable in certain contexts, but now that the context has passed, a trifle strange. If they are not willing to change it, then it comes across as exploitative.” She shrugged. “Or something like that. The state bank has built a relationship on being a safe bank for international banking and trade. If they will not renegotiate, based on our economic changes, I will tout that failure to the skies.”

“You’re so ruthless,” he said, delighted. 

She ducked her chin to hide a smile. “It’s not ruthlessness,” she disagreed, “but pragmatism.”

“It is so strange how many people conflate the two,” he told her. 

She eyed him. “I’m not sure you’re the best judge of that.”

He laughed. “No, probably not.”

They returned to their silent contemplation. Windblade was already mentally sketching out plans for creating a school attached to the hospitals, to teach healers, nurses, and immediate carers. It would be nice if they did not have to call out the surgeons to deal with triage and immediate care in the event of an accident or catastrophe. Better to have the surgeons where they belonged--in the operating theatre--and to have healers and nurses trained in trauma care for the more immediate needs.

Once the city had enough healers, she could begin to build a program that emphasized community health. She had visions of a small clinic per each neighborhood, served by healers and nurses from those neighborhoods, perhaps even setting up ancillary clinics outside the city, where healers could add onto their education by serving out there and learning ‘make-do healing.’ 

This politically-tinged scene of domesticity was interrupted by the near-silent arrival of Elita-One, but Starscream sensed her. Starscream looked up first, and his lips curled slightly. “Liege General,” he greeted, and Windblade’s head snapped up. “Can we help you?”

No doubt she had hoped to find Windblade alone, but finding Windblade and Lord Starscream together had surprised her, if the look on her face was anything to go by. Starscream had quietly ensured that rival spies only had reports that their relationship was largely acrimonious and they were only rarely in accord, but no doubt the image of the two of them working quietly disproved that idea. Starscream loved to be underestimated. It made his inevitable victories that much sweeter.

“I wanted to see your library,” Elita-One said smoothly. “I did not mean to disturb you.”

“Feel free,” Starscream said maliciously. “If you do not mind that we will continue to work.”

At that, Windblade returned her eyes to the loan agreement and the pad of paper upon which she was taking notes, but it was hard to regain her concentration. She was aware of Elita’s presence, and equally aware of how Starscream was watching her from the corner of his eye. She must not give anything away, to either of them. 

To Starscream’s disappointment, Elita-One did not linger despite being given permission to do so. She examined the volumes on one shelf, and then, with one last look at the table where they both sat, she left without ceremony. As soon as Elita-One crossed the threshold, tension bled out of Windblade’s shoulders and her eyes started to move on the document again.

Had Starscream been kind, he would have said nothing. Since he was Starscream, he asked, “Has she gotten you alone yet?”

Windblade’s hand jerked, spilling ink from her pen over her notes. She swore in Camien as she tried in vain to blot off some of the black ink with some loose paper. “She has,” Starscream said with satisfaction, even though his stomach cramped with anger and jealousy. “What did she want? Did she tell you what she was up to last year?”

“She would have me believe it was simply due to her anti-Decepticon sympathies,” Windblade muttered as she ripped out the ruined pages from her pad of paper and tossed them into the refuse bin. “It is not the whole story.”

“She could have lied about that,” Starscream said idly.

“No, she wouldn’t,” Windblade said flatly.

Starscream raised one eyebrow. “My dear, people do lie. You do.”

“She wouldn’t lie,” Windblade said firmly as she looked up from cleaning the last of the mess, “because she  _ can’t _ . She’s a truth-teller.”

Starscream considered that. “I’ve never met one before.”

“They typically don’t live long,” Windblade said absently as she smoothed away the last of the ink. “Most of them never learn how to honestly dissemble, and use their magic as an excuse to be rude. Elita…” she trailed off in an attempt to find the right description. “Elita learned how to reframe her answers, to be  _ technically _ true to the listener. It doesn’t mean she’s telling you everything.”

Starscream rubbed his hands together. “A doublespeaker,” he said. “This should be fun.”

“She already thinks you’re a liar,” Windblade capped her pen to prevent another accident. “You could surprise her and tell the truth.”

“But be sure to tell it slant, yes?” Starscream’s eyes sparkled with the challenge. Windblade rolled her eyes and returned to her work. She would have to copy her notes afresh.

\--

_ April 27, 1038 _

Lightbright crowed with laughter as her dice landed on the backgammon board to her benefit. Bumblebee groaned theatrically as he slumped back in his chair. “You are simply too good with the dice for me, Your Highness.”

“Another game?” Lightbright inquired, already resetting the board. “And for real stakes?”

“You would take me for everything I possess,” Bumblebee rubbed his eyes. “How about a different stake? You win, I answer any three of your questions. I win, the same prize.”

Lightbright eyed him. “That seems...reasonable.” She tossed a single die to see what number it rolled on; Bumblebee’s was higher, and he went first. “Are you usually invited to these kinds of nights?” She nodded across the room, where Windblade was sewing a sheet and Starscream was reading. 

“No, I’m not a member of the family,” Bumblebee tossed his dice and moved his chips across the board. “But admittedly, they don’t usually do this kind of thing. Around this time of night, they usually practice magic, but I’ve heard that they’re running into difficulty with wards.”

Lightbright raised her eyebrows. “They’ve told you that?”

Bumblebee tapped his ear. “To know anything, you have to know how to listen and surmise. I’m very good at it.”

Lightbright looked down at the backgammon board, her mind racing. “Do you mind if we pause this?” she asked. “I need to speak to them.”

Bumblebee nodded and helped to close the backgammon board. He left the room as Lightbright approached Windblade and Starscream. “Do you need help with wards?” she rushed out as soon as Bumblebee was gone. “For magic practice?”

Starscream looked up from his book. “Where did you get that idea?”

Lightbright waved a hand. “You know. Places.”

He rolled his eyes and grumbled, “Bumblebee.”

Windblade’s sewing didn’t falter as she met Lightbright’s eyes. “You think you could ward us?”

“Yes,” Lightbright said tentatively. “And possibly even lock the ward into a physical object--.”

“We can’t have a room just for magic practice,” Starscream interrupted.

“It doesn’t have to be a room! I can tie the wards into a rope or thread, I think. You can’t ward against your own power, not when it’s so strange, right?” When Windblade nodded, Lightbright plunged forward, “So let me do this for you. The more control over your magics, the better.”

“I would like to see you prove it,” Starscream said caustically.

Lightbright opened her mouth to snap at him, but Windblade cleared her throat. “Why not?” she asked. “It isn’t as though we are entertaining tonight.” She tied off her loose thread and put aside her project. “Shall we?”

“Right now?” Starscream arched an eyebrow.

“Is that book truly captivating your attention?” Windblade returned. Starscream scowled at her, and he put it aside with an irritated ‘thump.’ She looked up at Lightbright with a smile. “Shall I lead us?”

Lightbright nodded, already excited. Typically, fire witches weren’t good at thread magic, but she had a gift for wards and always carried a hank of thread for the purpose. Privately, she thought that creating a warded room might not be bad thing--at some point, Windblade and Starscream would have children, and with their magics, their children would be tremendously powerful. She would need to mention it to Windblade. Still, for right now, the thread-ward would be good enough.

When they got to an empty ballroom (and this palace had too many empty ballrooms), Starscream and Windblade stood by patiently as Lightbright unrolled her thread around them, to give them as much space as possible. Before she made it a closed circle and activated the ward, she paused. “Er--what are you two planning on doing?”

“ _ Now _ you have second thoughts?” Starscream demanded.

Windblade ignored him and said, “We spar as magic practice. It helps him get a feel for his magic.”

Lightbright frowned. “You couldn’t try meditation?”

“Hah!” Starscream interjected.

“He dislikes sitting down and doing internal reflection,” Windblade said. “I believe it’s because he might not like what he finds.”

Lightbright choked on a giggle as Starscream scowled at Windblade. “It isn’t that at all,” he replied, in as lofty a tone as Lightbright had ever heard, “I find it difficult to concentrate without doing  _ something _ .”

“Well, there’s an answer for that,” Lightbright said cheerfully. “Wait here.”

When she left, Starscream looked at Windblade. “Your sister is very strange.”

“We’re all strange,” she said. “You just aren’t used to her yet.”

Starscream sat down on the floor in disgust. “So is it true she almost drowned in Metroplex’s oversized pond?”

Windblade sat down with a little more grace. “She had to speak with Metroplex to learn the ritual for our wedding. He did not know she couldn’t swim.”

“Still, that’s two almost drownings in his spring,” he said pointedly. “It’s becoming a bad habit of his.”

Windblade inclined her head. “I know. I suspect that he’s feeling his power for the first time in a long time, what with all of his public springs, and he’s forgetting just how powerful he is. I’ve been speaking to him about it.”

“I don’t want any more potential or actual drownings,” he told her. 

“I got them,” Lightbright announced as she returned to the room with two staffs in her hands. She tossed one to Starscream, who caught it, and passed the other to Windblade. “They’re not super heavy or super light.”

“And these are for…?” Starscream twisted the staff end over end in his hands to get a feel for the weapon.

“Fighting meditation,” Lightbright chirped.

Windblade frowned with some embarrassment. “I was never trained in fighting meditation.”

“Probably because regular meditation worked for you just fine,” Lightbright informed her. “But I was trained in it. If you need activity to help focus your mind,” she turned to Starscream, “this is a good way to do it. Both of you use swords--you were both trained on the staff before that, right?”

Starscream allowed the end of the staff to rest on the floor near his foot. “It was a very long time ago.”

“And I was never very good at it,” Windblade added, a little nervous.

Lightbright waved that away. “Then you’re both on the same skill level, roughly. And the point isn’t to spar, the point is to get to know your reaction times and feel for your magic. It’ll take longer than regular meditation, but it’ll be worth it, especially if you ever have to fight with magic again.”

Starscream turned thoughtful as he ran a hand down the smooth wooden handle of his staff. “But I like to be unpredictable.”

“Do you want to be unpredictable to your wife?” Windblade demanded as she brought her staff up to a ready position.

Starscream smirked, and Lightbright hurriedly closed the ward and backed away. “Go slow,” she cautioned them, “it isn’t a competition or even a real spar.”

Famous last words, she thought as Starscream swung his staff in a low attack. Windblade blocked him with a ‘clack’ of wood, and then they were off. Windblade minded her sister’s recommendations for speed, and Starscream allowed it, but they were more focused on the staff work than their magic.

That was all right, for a first time, Lightbright allowed. The ward allowed Lightbright to see their magic for the first time--she hadn’t known how vibrantly scarlet Windblade’s magic truly was. As sweat began to darken Windblade’s outer robe and Starscream’s shirt, Windblade’s magic wound around her legs. Lightbright looked at it, a little perplexed, before she realized it was soothing the calf cramps that came with new types of exercise.

No wonder Windblade had never claimed of muscle fatigue when recounting some of her exploits. Her own magic helped to alleviate it.  _ Cheater. _

Lightbright could see Starscream’s magic, a yellow so bright it was sickly-looking.  She stared at it in an attempt to understand why death magic was yellow, but she lost track of her musings when Starscream’s magic pooled onto the floor and probed the wards before surrounding Windblade’s feet. When her magic touched it, it sparked brilliant orange.

“Wait!” Lightbright wasn’t aware of her demand they pause until it passed her lips. “Does your magic always do that when it joins? Turn orange?”

Windblade had paused in bringing her staff down to hit against Starscream’s block. “Er...yes? Our magic combines.”

Lightbright’s face lit up with the joy of discovering something  _ new. _ “Has it always done this or did it only happen once you two began...began?”

Starscream snorted. “That’s a festering delicate way to put it. No, it was before.” He moved his staff down, and Windblade belatedly copied him. “She says our magic was probably always meant to combine.”

“If your magic was always meant to combine...what can you do with it?” Lightbright breathed.

Windblade and Starscream exchanged looks before Windblade shrugged. “Anything? It’s the magic of possibility. We’ve used it to heal, mostly.”

“Fascinating. I need to think about this.” Lightbright turned on her heel to walk away, but she halted when Windblade called out after her.

“How do we break the ward?”

“Just use the staff to push apart the ends of the thread,” Lightbright replied over her shoulder. “Pull your magic back first.” Then she left.

Windblade turned to look back at Starscream.  “Well.”

He pointed his staff at her in the ‘ready’ position. “Well,” he mimicked.

Windblade fought a grin and failed. Everything had been so uncertain, and the physical exercise was so...certain. She swung for Starscream’s legs, deliberately overshooting the mark. He tsk’d at her before deflecting her. 

He was rusty and she had never been good at staff fighting, but they fell into a rhythm without having to worry about a storm spooling overhead, thanks to the wards. 

Then it happened--she swung her staff to block him, and his staff struck her fingers. “Ouch!” she said, dropping her staff to examine her fingers. Starscream came over, and she showed them to him. “Not broken,” she grimaced, “just hurting.” She shook out her hand. “Again?”

Starscream was frowning thoughtfully. This time, when their staffs clacked together, he moved much faster than he had been, almost too fast for her to keep up. His staff struck her upper arm, and she yelped. “Starscream!”

He didn’t reply, his eyes intent as he wove his staff in a complex movement that both disarmed her and dumped her onto her back, knocking the wind from her lungs. She wheezed in an attempt to catch her breath, and he jumped forward to straddle her, pressing the pole of the staff against her throat. She grabbed the staff with both hands until it just touched her windpipe. “What is it?” she rasped, trying not to cough.

“You laid a geass on me,” he reminded her, “so that I couldn’t hurt you. Why can I hurt you now?”

_ Fuck. _ She swallowed, the movement catching on the staff, and he lifted it fractionally. “It was--only a year and a day,” she croaked. “There were times you made me scared, so I thought...I hoped that after it wore off, you wouldn’t realize it and your own unconscious mind would keep you from doing anything.”

Starscream’s eyes narrowed. “You laid the geass before the curse broke.”

She rolled her eyes in lieu of answer. 

“And now that the curse is broken…” his lips twisted, and abruptly he tossed the staff away but didn’t get off her. “You didn’t feel the need to renew it.”

She reached up to rub her nose. “You didn’t know it was me when I woke you up that once,” she said. “I think if you had, you wouldn’t have done it, even if you could.” She searched his face for any clue for how his emotions were going--he could be truly difficult to predict. “So when it wore off, no, I did not renew the geass. You appeared to be able to control yourself, but now,” she made a face at him. “My fingers  _ hurt _ .”

“Let me kiss them better,” he said, and he did.

It was a good thing the ward was still up, she thought hazily, otherwise there might have been another storm.

\--

_ April 29, 1038 _ _   
_ _ Iacon _

Windblade draped her body over the railing over the spring in her garden. “You have to stop drowning people,” she told Metroplex, “or trying to drown them. I know you know when I’m there, but please stop doing that.”

Metroplex’s lights flickered green. “Stop laughing,” she reproved, “Lightbright is terrified of water and drowning. That was unkind.”

“I am so glad to know you are a cityspeaker,” Elita said from the foot of the bridge, “because otherwise most people would think you’re insane for speaking to a pond.”

Windblade leaned onto her elbows and smiled a little. “You know most people think cityspeaking is a load of claptrap.”

“I’m grateful that you were polite enough not to mention I used to be one of them,” Elita said as she joined her at the railing. “That is, until I saw you in action. We have not had a single rice water fever epidemic since you reorganized the pipes.”

Windblade’s smile brightened a few notches. “I’m glad to hear that. People should not die of preventable disease.”

“Exactly.” Elita looked at her. “You look beautiful.”

Windblade flushed and dropped her eyes to the wooden floor. It gave her the opportunity to look at Elita without appearing to, and she was a little disturbed: Elita typically wore black and pink, unless she was wearing the reddish brown Carcerian military uniform. She never wore green or any other color, but Elita was wearing hunter green with bright pink pinstripes. Since when did Carcerian weaving houses have the capacity for pinstripes?

Elita stepped closer.  “Have you considered my offer?”

Elita’s presence brushed against Windblade’s skin, and she tried to think past it. She had events to lay at Elita’s feet, she had remember that. “You didn’t answer my questions,” Windblade said, far more steadily than she felt. 

Elita blinked. “Yes, I did.”

“No, you evaded.” Windblade looked back up and met Elita’s eyes. Strange, how she had forgotten Elita was shorter than her. Elita’s presence loomed large in her memory. “Why did you do it? You have never been so altruistic to act for any other benefit but Carcer’s.”

Elita smiled. “I did it for you.” She hesitated before she added, “Your mother was never going to let you go, and your brother would have married you to the worst person he could possibly think of--which explains so much of why you are here. I knew that the cessation of hostilities between the Autobot and Decepticon factions could only ever be temporary, and in that, I saw my opportunity.”

“ _ Your _ opportunity?” Funny. It was no longer difficult to keep her head clear. “Do you know what happened to me? What happened to the city because you believed in instigating an opportunity?” She took a few steps back, beginning to tremble with anger. 

“I know that Prowl did things he shouldn’t have,” Elita said smoothly, holding her hands out in an attempt to calm her down. “He was pushed to desperate things.”

“He tried to have me raped,” Windblade flung at her, her anger turning into rage at the condescending way Elita was trying to talk over her. “To make me  _ grateful. _ ”

Elita stared at her, her lips parting in surprise. “He--what?”

“He captured me,” Windblade spat, her vision taking on a tint of red. Heat poured from her skin, and she was shaking more furiously. “He couldn’t turn me against Starscream, not when I realized how long a shot he had and that he had a dead Prime with him. He was willing to break open the seals between the realms of the living and the dead! When I wouldn’t help him, he arranged to have me raped. It failed, thank Solus, but he tried.” Windblade sneered at Elita, upset at the memories. “But you never had a problem with taking advantage of that, did you? That’s how you dazzled me. I wonder if that’s where he got the idea from.”

Elita’s eyes narrowed. “I did not know. Now that I do, steps will be taken.”

“Oh, so he’s with you now?” Windblade laughed bitterly. “Imagine my surprise.”

“And as for your other charge…” Elita waited until Windblade met her eyes again. “No, I never arranged to have you raped, or even for it to be attempted. What happened to you in my palace was a disgrace to my leadership and the safety I offered to you. Defending you from those that would stain your honor was the least I could do. Believe me--I did not plan it.”

Windblade sagged a little. Elita was a truthteller--she was magically constrained from lying. Then she rallied again. “And the dead Prime?”

“Prowl did that without my knowledge,” Elita’s eyes were icy. 

“And yet you provide him shelter,” Windblade pointed out. “Why?”

“He is a useful tool, but just a tool.” Elita shrugged. “One I will have to reconsider. Know this, Windblade--just because I funded his faction does not mean I condoned all of his actions. Especially what he did to you.” She reached out and took Windblade’s hands. “It was the best option I could see for you, to give you your independence.”

It was getting hard to think again. “And if it had succeeded, what then? You would have swept in and offered me asylum while Cybertron descended into chaos? How does that benefit you?”

“You know I would have offered you safety,” Elita said, slowly pulling Windblade in closer. There was the feeling of something gentle catching at Windblade’s exposed skin of her arms, and Elita’s eyes glinted in the moonlight. “You would have been safe. My people would have welcomed you. You know how they love you.”

It was too easy for Windblade to read  _ You know how I love you _ in that statement. Something niggled at her--it was too easy. Why did Elita think it would be so easy to seduce her again? She thought Starscream was the worst thing that could ever happen to Windblade. She didn’t know.  _ She didn’t know. _

“I am loved here, too,” Windblade whispered.

“Is it enough? Do you love him?” Elita lifted Windblade’s chin and kissed her.

Windblade’s mind went blank. She relaxed into Elita’s arms before she realized it, and Elita’s hold was comfortable. She knew how Windblade loved to be held and Windblade basked in the affection. It was so easy, with Elita. Nothing had to be negotiated or argued or compromised. Elita knew exactly what Windblade needed and gave it to her.

Then reality crashed into them both in a literal dash of cold water. Windblade spluttered as one of the firebirds flapped in the spring waters beneath them. The cold water restored her reason, and she looked at Elita with horror. She was betrothed, practically married. What was she doing? How could she slipped so quickly back into her infatuated state? Had it been magic or just the feelings she had yet to excise?

Windblade’s eyes widened when she saw the threads of greenish magic retreating from Elita’s hands to the center of her body. She tried to follow the lines of magic with her own sight, but once they retreated to her spark, they vanished. Elita’s magic was pink. What was this green magic?

“Windblade,” Elita said, reaching for her again. “Windblade, run away with me, before your wedding and you are lost forever.”

“No,” Windblade said. “I have a duty, I must--.”

“For once in your life, live for yourself!” Elita’s face lit from within, but Windblade did not find it beautiful. “You should be happy!”

“We cannot live for happiness,” Windblade said. “It is too chancy, too quickly gone. Better to live a life worth of honor and take what happiness comes.” She straightened her shoulders. “I am satisfied.”

“That cannot be enough,” Elita persisted. “ _ He _ cannot be enough.”

Windblade’s temper rose again. “It isn’t about him!”

“Isn’t it?” Elita approached her again, and again, there was a feeling of something gentle catching at her skin. This time, the heat rippling off Windblade’s skin burned it away, leaving only her anger. “I only suggested him because it would make you free of the Camiens. That was my only purpose--,” she reached for Windblade and kissed her again, and Windblade’s sense of offended decency overwhelmed her other senses. She pushed at Elita until she was free, and in her attempt to get away, her foot stepped into a puddle.

She fell backward, and she vaguely heard the  _ crack _ as her head struck the wooden pillar before her world faded into darkness.

\--

_ Earlier _

Ravage arched her back as she stretched. It had been too long since she had prowled the palace halls as a cat, and Windblade was so used to hearing a cat’s velvet footsteps behind her that she no longer heard them. Starscream had asked some weeks ago that Ravage post some kind of guard on his betrothed, and Ravage had done so.

Tonight, however, her instincts told her that it would be best if she followed the princess. Ravage was discreet and hid her emotions. She trusted her people, but the desire to gossip could get the best of anyone. 

When Windblade entered her garden, Ravage used one of the trees to jump onto the low-hanging roof that shielded the outer walkway from rain and snow. It was a moonless night, and her dark fur was hidden in the shadows. 

She watched with interest as Windblade bent over the rail to talk to the waters below. She had never fully understood how cityspeaking worked, so it was good to see Windblade talking to the city, unaware of her audience. 

Her tail lashed with interest as Elita-One came out from under the overhanging, low roof and onto the bridge that spanned the entire width of the garden. She had heard rumors, nothing verified, about the nature of the princess’ attachment to the Liege General, and she was going to see the truth of them. She flicked her ears forward and pulled on just a bit of magic, to better hear them.

What she heard was  _ very _ interesting, but her senses told her something else. Unlike other witches, she could not see magic. She had known a few animal witches like herself, and it was true for them as well, that they couldn’t  _ see _ magic, but they could smell it. All witches smelled like their magic, but when they were using it, the scent grew stronger.

Starscream smelled like ice and salt. During his curse, his magic’s scent had been danker, more like the smell of waterlogged land filled with dying animals. His magic had become cleaner since the curse was broken. The princess’ magic smelled like fire--big surprise, that, but it was the comforting smell of wood-burning fire.

When she had met Elita-One, her magic had smelled like fresh pine, all clean and crisp. The magic she was smelling now was not that--it was acrid and chemical, like the smell of burning sap. Yet all of her senses told her it came from Elita-One. What was going on?

It was time, she decided, to get Starscream. She jumped down, quietly, and paused in a patch of shadow. The players on the bridge did not notice, and she ran off as soon as she was out of their possible line of sight. 

Starscream was already on his way and met her halfway. His eyebrows rose when he saw her, and she skidded on the stone floor to catch up with him. She could not speak in her cat form, but she didn’t need to. “Metroplex alerted me something was wrong,” Starscream said through his teeth. 

When their frantic race ended at the beginning of the garden, they both saw that Windblade was crumpled on the bridge, with Elita-One being attacked by the two swans, which told its own story. Ravage didn’t need Starscream to tell her to fetch Hook, and she immediately jumped up onto the roof and over it. With the new construction and renovation to the palace, her position as Chief of Intelligence gave her necessary standing to fully explore any and all routes to get in and out of the palace.

Hook was in his ground office with the window open to catch the night breeze, working on some paperwork. When she landed on the windowsill more heavily than required, he glanced at her. His eyes widened when she chuffed at him, and he scrambled to get his medical kit.

She had to force herself to slow down and accompany him. She had smelled blood, back there, and it made her instincts and reflexes stronger. She had to be careful around blood. It could be addictive.

Starscream stalked onto the bridge. “ _ Off _ , birds.” He planted his hands on his hips and glared at the firebirds. Windblade respected them--well, of course  _ she _ would, they were sacred to Camien culture, but he came from Vos and they were not sacred to him. If need be, he would scorch them with ice.

The firebirds flew away from Elita and landed with a smacking sound in the water below. Elita-One was bleeding from cuts to her face, nose, arms, and chest, and from the way she held herself, he suspected she had at least a broken arm and some broken ribs. “Amazing security system, aren’t they?” he taunted her as he knelt by Windblade’s side and felt for her pulse. If she was dead...the old rage stirred.

“Indeed,” Elita-One replied, her voice cracked and nasal. Ah, a broken nose then. He didn’t bother to shove down the satisfaction. 

Under his fingertips, he could feel Windblade’s pulse. It was steady and strong, but the touch of his cold fingers hadn’t even caused her eyelids to jerk as a reflex. That wasn’t good. He wrapped one hand around the skin of her throat and allowed his magic to search her. There was a head injury, but thank Primus, nothing else. The head injury was worrisome. If she had struck her head hard enough to lose consciousness, it was bad.

He looked up at Elita-One, his anger chilling the air around them. He felt the pressure drop with the air temperature, and he would have to be careful. “What happened?”

“She slipped and hit her head,” Elita-One said before she set her nose with a grinding noise. Starscream winced, despite himself. He had had to do that himself, a time or two. It was never pleasant.

“She isn’t clumsy,” Starscream said flatly. “How did she slip?”

“On water,” Elita-One replied.

He narrowed his eyes at her. She was a truthteller, that was what Windblade had told him. She could not lie--but she could tell the truth in a way that was  _ almost _ a lie. “I will find out what happened, either from Metroplex or the birds,” he pointed out. “Best to get it out of the way now.” If she had put Windblade in danger, it would give him the only excuse he needed to send assassins after her. 

Elita-One set her jaw stubbornly. 

The standoff was interrupted by Hook’s arrival with Ravage. Ravage hadn’t bothered to change, but she didn’t come onto the bridge either. Instead, she paced on the grass with her tail lashing. She was upset, but Starscream didn’t have the time for her just then. 

Hook, to Starscream’s approval, ignored Elita-One and her injuries entirely to go to Windblade’s side. Starscream got out of his way as Hook knelt down and opened his medical kit. “What is the injury?”

“A cracked skull, I think, but I can’t tell if there’s further damage than that,” Starscream murmured. He pushed Windblade’s hair out of her face, which showed the blue streaks in her dark hair. Elita-One saw them, and for a moment--only because Starscream was looking at her--her brown eyes flashed green. 

That was disturbing.

“There’s some bruising, but no brain bleeds,” Hook decided after a moment. “That’s good. Sometimes, with repeated head trauma, it gets easier to be injured. She’s safe to be moved, so let’s bring her toward the center of the bridge. She might have a flashback when she wakes up, and she’ll need to see you.”

Starscream obeyed. Hook placed a hand on Windblade’s crown and closed his eyes. His purplish-green magic sank into her head, and Starscream waited. Head injuries were tricky to heal, even the most straightforward of them, and it was better to take your time with them, or so Hook had lectured him once. 

Hook sat back at last, and as his magic pulled away from Windblade, it woke her up. Her eyes snapped open suddenly and she gasped, her gaze confused. Starscream moved until he was directly in her line of sight, and he cupped her cheek. She clutched at him as she searched his face, and when he allowed his magic to brush against her skin, she calmed. “Ow,” she said.

“That will happen,” Hook said as he approached Elita-One. She held out one arm for him to heal first. 

“What happened?” Starscream asked quietly under Hook’s questioning of Elita-One’s injuries. “The birds attacked Elita.”

“We had an argument,” Windblade sighed. “Can I sit up?”

“Carefully,” Hook snapped over his shoulder. “I’m still not sure you shouldn’t be in the hospital overnight where my students can keep an eye on you.”

“Please, anything but that,” Windblade muttered. She carefully pushed up from the bridge boards, and Starscream moved to secure her. “I don’t remember why I fell, but that should come back soon.”

“An argument?” he asked.

She squeezed his hand. “Tell you later.”

They both watched Hook heal Elita-One from a ‘true mauling,’ as he pronounced the injuries. “The firebirds are closer to swans than I gave you credit for,” Starscream murmured in Windblade’s ear without moving his lips. “They can be lethal without exploding.”

“They can be subtle,” she agreed, her lips barely moving.

Elita-One had to go to the hospital with Hook for any last-minute check-ups, but after one last checkover, Hook declared that Windblade could sleep in her rooms, provided she had a watcher. She rolled her eyes at his condition; Starscream was not going to let her go anywhere without him for the determined future. “And one more thing,” Hook said as Ravage led Elita-One away, “no magic-working for at least two days. I know you have that ritual--don’t work anything before it.” He wouldn’t let her go to bed until she agreed, but at least he informed Starscream she could walk on her own. Otherwise, Starscream would have carried her.

“An argument?” Starscream demanded once they were alone and going back to her rooms. “Over what?”

“Her role in last year’s events,” Windblade rubbed her eyes. “We both had different interpretations. She’s providing asylum to Prowl, by the way.”

“When it had been more than three months without a sighting of him, I thought as much, but it’s always nice to have confirmation.” Starscream opened the door and practically shoved her inside. Victorion looked up from her own bed with a curious chirp.

“Everything’s fine,” she assured the plains cat. “Well, mostly,” she amended as her head swam. 

“Your clothing’s wet,” Starscream said as he shut the door and activated the many wards. No one was getting into her room with their approval that night. “How did that happen?”

“Elita--was too intimate,” Windblade said as she laid down on the bed and kicked off her slippers. “The birds splashed the water over the both of us.”

Starscream frowned as he hunted for her night clothes. “The  _ birds _ did?”

“Starscream, something’s not right with her,” Windblade yawned as she sat up so that she could take her robes off. “She’s wearing green.”

“So?”

“She never wears green,” Windblade’s jaw was in danger of cracking as Starscream pulled a nightshirt over her head. “Never.”

“It’s been years,” he said, “people change. I never used to wear blue.”

She smiled sleepily. “I don’t know why the birds didn’t want her to know what they are,” she mumbled as she lay back. He tucked the covers over her and slipped in beside her. “That’s something worth thinking about.”

He stroked her hair. “Think about it tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she agreed, and slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ehehehehehehehehhe._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from _The Ballad of Tam Lin. _The inspiration for the chapter title & some of the shenanigans in this chapter is directly inspired by Seanan Mcguire's _An Artificial Night. _( _Major_ trigger warnings for blood, violence, drugged states, and self harm. Still, the October Daye series is one of my favorites and we have a NEW TITLE coming out next month AND I AM EXCITE. If you've read October Daye, drop a note in the comments so that we can geek out together).____
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> _  
> _  
> _Windblade's ritual scene is also inspired by Tamora Pierce's _Realms of the Gods._ If you've read it, you know what scene I'm referencing._  
>  _  
>  _  
>  _
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> _  
> _  
> _Warnings for this chapter include self-inflicted harm (but it's _not_____ self harm). Also a comment about how weddings are really for the attendees, not the people getting married. If you disagree, please feel free to leave a comment below too.  
>    
>    
> 

**CHAPTER 5: HOLD ME TIGHT AND FEAR ME NOT**

_May 1, 1038_  
Evening  
Iacon 

“You don’t have to do this,” Lightbright said as Windblade removed the last hairpin. Her hair fell down her back in one large tangle, and with a sigh, Windblade reached for the wooden comb. “You don’t know everything this ritual will do.”

“Do you?” Windblade’s eyes flicked to her sister’s, so like her own, in her mirror as she began to comb out the ends of her hair. 

“No,” Lightbright admitted, “but it will change you and your magic. Is that something you want?”

“I suspect it will make my magic--both of our magics--more stable. That’s something good.”

“What if it turns you into something?” Lightbright persisted. 

“I trust Metroplex. He would not recommend this ritual if he did not feel it was to our benefit,” Windblade smiled in the mirror. “Well? Are you going to help me?”

Lightbright muttered something uncomplimentary before she took the comb from her sister and went to work on the largest knot. “You are all prepared?”

Windblade inspected her appearance. “I believe so.” She had to remove all previous spells from her body, so that they would not be woven into the final spell. Her hair had to be loose and she could not wearing clothing with any ties or buckles, just one long, shapeless gown. Her feet had to be bare. It reminded her of the final ritual of the Cityspeaker trials--at least she could wear _something_ , this time around. Last time, she had to be naked in front of all of the initiated priests. 

This ritual promised to be more private than that. She needed to go to Metroplex’s central spring for it--Starscream would complete his ritual in the morning. He did not need all the steps she did. His was only to prepare him for the final bonding.

All of the other ritual implements--candles, a blessed silver knife, a silver bowl, and a towel--were already at the central spring. Since the central spring was in the central city park, Captain Barricade had already emptied the area and closed it off to any potential observers.

Everything was ready, or just about. She felt a moment’s envy for Starscream-- _he_ could perform his part in the ritual in her garden springs.

Lightbright had finished combing her hair. “I hope I look as good as you in ten years,” Lightbright sighed as she picked up a lock of Windblade’s blue hair and rubbed it between her fingertips. She could feel the magic that had caused the color change--it lingered still. “No one would know you’re thirty-one.”

“Mother is in her late fifties and you would never know,” Windblade pointed out. “I wouldn’t worry.” She brushed her hair out of Lightbright’s hold with a gentle smile and stood up. “Are you walking me out?”

“Might as well,” Lightbright said glumly. “It’s not like I have anything else to do.”

“Oh, thank you for being your last choice,” Windblade teased as she removed the last of her jewelry, her silver contraception charm. “If it will be such a burden--.”

“No, no! I just wish I could watch it, that’s all. This ritual _means_ something, even though I can’t find any evidence of it in my research.”

“Researching in our library won’t do you much good,” Windblade advised as she slipped her feet into simple woven sandals. “You’ll have to wait until you get home.”

“I know, but I’m not that eager to go,” Lightbright made a face as she opened the door for Windblade. “Thunderblast is prancing around with her pregnant belly, when anyone can get pregnant.”

“I do believe she was _kept_ from getting pregnant,” Windblade reminded her sister as she left her rooms. “It is important now.”

Lightbright’s scowl deepened. “I didn’t think you would side with her.”

“I’m not siding with her. When you want to get pregnant and can’t, for whatever reasons...it’s devastating.” Windblade cut her eyes toward her sister. “I can have sympathy for that.”

“Did you ever want children?” Lightbright asked suddenly. “Like with Elita?”

Windblade held in a tiny sigh. She still did not know what to make of Elita. “I wasn’t ready to have children,” she said finally, “and if I had known Elita wanted them…” No, don’t go down that path. “I would still like children, someday. But I know that once you have children, your whole life changes, and I am a little afraid of that.”

Lightbright leaned against her briefly. “You would be a wonderful parent.”

“That’s not the problem,” Windblade said as they walked down the stairs. 

“Then what--oh.”

“Yes, _oh_.” She shrugged and waited at the bottom for Lightbright to catch up. “It’s not a decision we have to make yet.”

“Don’t say that,” Lightbright warned her. “You know how Micronus Prime likes to play tricks.”

Windblade made a face of her own. “I doubt I am of interest to _that_ Prime.” She paused at the palace gate. “This is where I leave you.”

Lightbright leaned onto her toes and kissed Windblade’s cheek. “Come back alive,” she whispered, and then Windblade was alone. She took a deep breath, and then she started on her way.

The angles of the cobblestones pressed into through the thin sole of her sandals to her feet, to her discomfort. The stones were also cold with the night’s chill, and her breath steamed in the air. She rubbed her hands down her arms, over the thin linen of her ritual robe, and she tried to ignore the cold and the discomfort. She could have used her magic to warm herself, but Metroplex had been very clear: she must not have another spell on her skin before she began the ritual, not even the aftereffects of one.

She was not willing to see why. Metroplex would not be so vehement in his warnings if there was not a good reason for it. Her curiosity did not extend that far.

Thankfully, her trip was quick, and soon she was standing at the edge of the pond in the center of the main city park. The water was dark with the tannins from the oak and maple leaves that drifted into it, hiding its true nature as a spring. She stripped off the linen robe and its’ slight warmth, and draped it on the stone bench that overlooked the pond, and she left her sandals behind as well. On that same bench was the silver knife, honed to lethal sharpness, and the silver bowl that would collect her blood. 

She lifted the knife, and before she could think twice, nicked the shell of both of her ears. The blood dripped into the silver bowl. From there, she collected blood from right above her eyes, her lips, the soles of her feet, and finally her hands. Her whole skin was on fire from the cuts, but as she stepped into the spring, the cool water soothed her feet.

She lifted the bowl and recited the ritual phrases that marked a willing sacrifice. “I offer my hearing, my sight, my words, and my movement,” she said without hesitation. “I offer this so that I will always perform what is needed to best serve my people and my city. No relationship is complete without sacrifice, and so I offer that sacrifice now.”

Between and around her feet, the water began to swirl until it foamed. She knelt down to pour her blood into the spring waters, and the water stilled briefly, just long enough that she thought the ritual was over, but then the ground disappeared underneath her feet and she fell through.

She inhaled sharply as a reflex, and she was surprised when she could breathe. The water pressed around her body, but it did not feel like water. It was more viscous, almost like jelly. It carefully teased her arms and legs apart and completely surrounded her. She floated in the dark, her eyelids having closed when she fell through, and the water interfered with her sense of direction until she felt dizzy and overwhelmed.

It was the magic entering her body, she knew. It coated her skin and entered her body through her nose, mouth, and any other opening it could find. She had not been so aware of how many small cuts she had on her hands before.

They would be healed when the magic released her. She knew this magic, as raw and wild as it was, was a positive, building force. 

That was her last coherent thought before the magic engulfed her entirely. She did not know how long she drifted--there was no light to indicate passing time. She was warm and comfortable, and she could breathe. That was all she needed.

Slowly, the viscous fluid pushed her up until her head broke the surface of the spring. She gasped, the cold air burning her throat and lungs, and she was brought to the edge of the shore, where the spring waters held her up until she could stand on her own. The cold instantly seeped into her skin, proof of how drained she was, and she shivered as she pulled on the linen robes. Not that it did much for her warmth, but at least she was wearing something.

Her head spun as she took a step forward, but she gritted her teeth and pressed on. Metroplex’s magic was confusing all of her senses, but when she shook her head in an attempt to clear it, a thick silver line appeared in front of her. She followed it, even as bits of red, gray, yellow, and green magics fluttered in her magical sight. She knew where she was going--Metroplex was leading her home.

\--

Starscream slammed the book closed with more force than required before resting his head on the desk. Useless, all of these mythological treatises. None of them actually discussed in any detail what the fight against Unicron had entailed, only supposition, and Metroplex had told him enough to know that all of the suppositions he was reading were wrong. 

They were more interested in discussing what led to the downfall of the Primes, and what triggered it. No doubt a very _important_ discussion, at least among these hidebound academic theologians, but did it matter? It had happened, life in Cybertron continued, _move on._ What was more important was how Unicron had been defeated. If the resurgence of the Primes’ familiars meant that the borders between realms were weakening, Unicron might come back.

All right, that was a stretch. But he was annoyed with the offerings of his meager library and he had always been more dramatic when frustrated. 

The door opened without his consent, and he turned toward it with magic flaring at his fingertips. He had set the wards himself--no one, save who he had set in the wards, should just be able to _come in_. His magic flickered and died as he crossed the room to Windblade’s side, just in time to catch her as she stumbled forward.

Her skin sparked with carnelian light where he touched her, and she met his eyes. She had blown pupils, and she was physically cold to the touch. “Are you suffering from sensory overload?”

“You’re helping,” she mumbled. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he was faced with two choices: drag her into the room, or carry her. He chose to stoop and carry her. She made a happy noise as she tucked her face into his chest. 

He dropped her on the bed and pulled the covers over her. He didn’t like how cold she was--she must be drained. “Come back,” she whimpered as he poked up the fire. “Please.”

He looked back at her over his shoulder, and he raised his eyebrows at her shrugging off the linen robe. “You’re not capable of giving consent,” he said shortly.

“I’m drained, not high,” she argued, “and you _help_. Your touch, it helps…” her voice drifted off as she tried to find the right words. “You’re the only one.”

“Of course I am,” he grunted, and he turned back to the fire. He was surprised enough to flinch slightly when she hugged him from behind. 

“You’re the only one I trust for this,” she said. “You help me fit back into my skin. Please, Starscream. I promise I’m not addled. But everything’s clearer when you’re touching me.”

“I would settle for being the only one you trust,” he said. “You make a compelling argument.”

“Please,” she said again, “take me to bed. Hold me down and don’t let me go.”

So he did.

\--

_May 2, 1038  
Iacon_

Starscream woke up first. Windblade’s back was pressed against his side, and she was curled around one of the spare pillows he kept. He carefully slid out from under the covers, and when Windblade started to stir at the movement, he took one of his other pillows and pressed it against her back. She relaxed, and he got out of bed.

His standing morning request for a pot of tea, honey, and cream was waiting outside his door, and he brought it inside as he reviewed Metroplex’s instructions. The scent of the tea revived him enough to feel awake, and when he poured himself a cup and drained it, he felt almost alive again.

From his glance outside the window, dawn was about half an hour away. He needed to be in Windblade’s garden when the sun’s first light touched the land. For some reason, that was important. 

He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out to run a hand down Windblade’s back. She made a muffled noise and curled more tightly around her pillow, but when he continued, she raised an arm to bat at his hand. “Too early.”

“For you, perhaps.” He put down the teacup and moved to curl around her. When he tucked his chin into the curve of her shoulder, he could see that she had drooled on the pillow while she slept, and he didn’t have the words to describe the mixture of disgust and fondness. He didn’t like it--not having the words. Even his worst enemies would never describe him as taciturn. “You’re taking that pillow with you.”

She chose to ignore him and bury her face further into the pillow. He didn’t like being ignored, either, so he tilted his chin and blew on her ear. She made a vague noise of protest and batted at his hip. “Stoppit.”

For answer, he blew on her ear again. She wriggled in his hold, but he wasn’t going to let her go. “Metroplex will not accept you as my excuse for being late,” he murmured against her skin. “And you have go be made beautiful.”

“A _real_ husband would say I was already beautiful,” she said waspishly. “Move over, I need the garderobe.”

He got up and moved to his side chair, where he finished his tea. Windblade came out, wrapped in one of his long nightshirts, and his spark pulsed treacherously in his chest at the sight. She surprised him by slipping into his lap, and she closed her eyes as she laid her head along his shoulder. 

“I have places to be,” he said, but he didn’t move her. If he had been in a less generous mood, he might have dumped her on the floor, but she wasn’t usually so touchy, not as touchy as he was, and he didn’t want her to link being dumped on the floor with touching him. 

“I know,” she mumbled, “but just for a moment longer.” Her arms slid around him, and hesitantly he reached out and held her. She was pleasantly warm, and he stroked the tangled mass of dark hair that ran down her back. The blue streaks were coiled through the rest of her hair, and he thought--idly--that perhaps she would not hide them for the wedding. He hoped she wouldn’t. For those who knew what they meant, the fact that he had mastered her would be a warning to anyone planning...mischief.

Despite how comfortable their current arrangement was, he was about to shift her anyway when she left him. “I have to go be made beautiful,” she said with rolled eyes--back to blue, thank Primus. The silvered glaze to her eyes last night had discomfited him. 

“What I find beautiful about you I don’t want anyone else to see,” he said frankly, admiring the curve of her hips and thighs as she turned away from him. “That should belong to just me.”

“Possessive,” she reproved as she opened their connecting door.

“I never claimed otherwise,” he shrugged before leaving to go to Windblade’s garden.

In her rooms, Windblade had enough time to poke up the fire and set the kettle on before Lightbright sailed through the door. She tugged her dressing gown--it was comfortable and Starscream was _not_ getting it back--tighter around herself as Lightbright led in an entire team of servants. Windblade counted three servants and despaired internally. Her wedding ceremony was not merely a wedding--it was an Event, formally tying Cybertron and Caminus together, and she had to come to the wedding altar as the epitome of a Camien lady. That meant full face make-up and the ridiculous seven layer robes.

"What are we doing first?" Windblade demanded once Lightbright came to a stop.

Lightbright eyed her sister critically. "Bath first." She hesitated before adding, "Will it disrupt the magic on your skin? You shimmer, a little, like you've been coated with diamond dust."

Windblade thought about it, and almost instantly she had her answer. "No. The magic looks like it's on my skin, but it's embedded in my aura. Water won't disrupt it. It would take something far more powerful than that."

Lightbright stared at her for a moment. "To put it directly into your aura...it must be very powerful. Do you _feel_ different?"

Windblade glanced around the room and saw that Lightbright's servants were giving her the same looks of awe and fear. "I did last night. I've adjusted." She shrugged. "Can we get on with this?"

They did not have much of a choice, and Windblade submitted to their ministrations. At one time, she had been good at allowing servants to do their work, but she had gotten along for the better part of a year without a lady's maid, and she was uncomfortable by all the strangers touching her. They moved her to the bathtub, where warm water and violet oil had been waiting. "Airazor contributed the violet scent," Lightbright commented as she watched one of her servants comb out Windblade's long hair with care, using a warm oil and a comb. "She said something about how it wouldn't be appropriate for her to join the preparations, but that this was her contribution. I thought you didn't like other people to pick out your scent."

Windblade had her eyes closed and her hands wrapped around the lip of the tub in an effort not to jump with every jerk of the comb. "She knows what I like."

"How?!"

Windblade opened her eyes the slightest bit to glare at her sister. "Didn't you read _any_ of the diplomatic dossiers we compiled on Eukaris?" She closed her eyes with a flinch.

"No," Lightbright said stubbornly. "Mother didn't even let me see her documents of state until this past year."

"They weren't--oh, never mind. The markers we use in our society to indicate class, marriage status, and all of that aren't used in Eukaris, since it's more traditional for ladies to go veiled. Colors are determined by family and allegiance. Since they have more wild--wild as in untamed--magic than any other place I've been, they use scent signifiers. A young lady just entering Society usually wears some kind of light spring floral scent, to indicate they are in Society but not ready for marriage. Someone ready for marriage uses a heavier scent. Married partners will typically wear the same or complementary scents. So on and so forth. There are several guides in Eukaris, just to describe the families of scent and what they indicate. Since I was an ambassador of marriageable age, I found it was expected to wear some kind of scent, otherwise I would have a hard time getting anywhere. I met with Airazor and her perfumer to find the right scent to indicate I was technically of marriageable age but not available without my home country's consent. We settled on Sea Violet. I've loved it ever since. I try to keep it stocked in soap bars, but I've been out for a year."

Lightbright wrinkled her nose. "But you're getting married, shouldn't you have changed your scent?"

"The scent signifiers are only relevant when I'm in Eukaris. Outside of it, it's a lovely perfume." Windblade's hands relaxed from her white-knuckled grip on the tub as the servant combing her hair began to braid the untangled strands.

"Why scent?" Lightbright asked after a moment. "I've been around Airazor and Tigatron and I've barely noticed anything."

"When they're around non-Eukarians, they go lighter on it," Windblade said dryly. "But they wouldn't be reeking with scent anyway--their senses are more powerful in general, so what we would consider to be a light spritz is choke-worthy in Eukaris. You'd only notice there when you have a number of people from the same family, mostly."

"Huh." Lightbright shook her head.

That marked the next phase of Windblade's wedding preparations. She was drawn from the tub and scrubbed down by two of the servants, who ignored her embarrassment. Sea violet-scented lotion was rubbed into her bare skin and the thin cotton under-robe fastened around her, and then she was drawn into the chair at her vanity table. She closed her eyes and acceded to having her fingertips dyed red with henna, her white tattoos delicately painted with silver paint, and the twists and curls her poor hair went through until it was pinned to the hairdresser's satisfaction. Once all of that was done, someone turned her chair to start to dust the white rice powder that would turn her skin into a perfect canvas.

She allowed all of it with her eyes closed. If she kept them open, she would flinch.

"My lady princess, please don't move," someone warned her, and then liquid was being brushed against her eyelids. Windblade held still, and when she was instructed to open and purse her lips, a similar liquid was painted on her lips.

After a moment, she was directed to open her eyes and look up, and the servant flicked the brush with the liquid along the bottom of her eyes. She knew what it was, then. Caminus had painted his eyes with red after Solus Prime died, and as a way to mark themselves as daughters of Solus, her house had always done so for any kind of state events. Had she been aware of all of the undercurrents involving the Camien-Cybertronian treaty eighteen months ago, Windblade would have painted her eyes appropriately.

Once all of her make-up was done, it was time to be dressed. This was the part she dreaded the most--each gossamer-thin layer of silk had to be draped so carefully on her frame, and the weight of all the fabric made her clumsy. When the last robe was in place, she was directed to the mirror, and she saw a painted princess wearing layers of scarlet, cobalt, and jet silk. The hairdresser hadn't tried to hide the spark-dyed streaks of her hair, to her surprise, and behind her, Lightbright brought forth the fan-shaped gold hair pieces and smaller golden clips that would frame her face. "Just this, now. Nothing's bespelled."

"Oh good," Windblade said distantly. She was truly getting married, and she had never wanted to run more. She had never wanted marriage, not since Elita, and Elita's behavior in the past few days had made it clear what Windblade had dodged when her mother had refused Elita's suit. Fear gripped her as she was drawn back into a chair for the hairpieces to be placed into the structure on top of her head.

"There," Lightbright said, pleased. "You look perfect."

Windblade tried to swallow and could not. Lightbright took her silence well, and squeezed her shoulders. "I have to go, but I have made all the arrangements to get you to the city square." She dared not risk the wrath of the servants around them by kissing her sister's cheek, so she just squeezed Windblade's shoulders again and left.

Windblade stood up as the servants brushed out invisible wrinkles from the silk. Her fear was a solid knot in her stomach, but the skirts of the robes she was wearing hid how her legs shook. She had to move forward, she had made a commitment, and more than that, she had a _duty_ , but her legs wouldn’t move. As long as she didn’t move, she couldn’t be married.

There was a soft knock at the door, and when one of the servants opened it, Windblade saw Elita. “May we have a moment?” Elita asked. “Privately?”

The servants turned as one to look at Windblade. Windblade swallowed and nodded. “Just--one moment. I need to go down to the city square.” Her voice didn’t waver, and she was proud of herself. 

“Of course.” Elita stood aside to let the servants pass, and once they were gone, she flicked her fingertips. To Windblade’s magical sight, Elita’s usual pink magic was edged with dark green, and it made her uneasy. Was Elita aware that her magic was tainted? Did she care? Elita stepped further into the room, and she lifted a hand to trace some of the intricacies of Windblade’s hairstyle.

Windblade held herself very still, and Elita dropped her hand. “You look like a painted doll,” she murmured. “Very royal, very beautiful, but not quite yourself.”

“I’m not marrying as myself,” Windblade said steadily. “I’m marrying as Caminus.”

“You don’t have to.” Elita’s voice was soft and gentle, nothing like the strident persuasion she had used a few nights ago. She reached down to grasp Windblade’s hands, and Windblade’s skin sparked at the contact. It was enough to tell her something was very wrong. She just didn’t know _what._ “You could come with me and live as yourself.”

“Elita--,” Windblade began.

“I know I represented myself badly,” Elita said quietly, “and I never meant for you to be hurt. But you have been so unhappy for years. Anyone who knows you well can see it. You think satisfaction in your work can be happiness, but it is hollow. As soon as you complete one project, your unhappiness comes back, because it never left. Is this the life you want for yourself?”

Windblade licked her lips in preparation to speak, but Elita didn’t wait for her to answer. “I want to make you happy,” Elita whispered. She drew Windblade’s hands up and pressed light kisses to Windblade’s knuckles. “Please let me.”

Windblade stared at Elita. Both Elita and Starscream were in the same palace, but when she had been overwhelmed and needed to be reminded of how she fit into her skin, she went to Starscream, not Elita. Starscream wasn’t impressed by her magic--he bordered on irreverent, and as irritating as that could be, it was something she appreciated. He let her ramble with only the occasional sarcastic comment, and he didn’t try to protect her from unknown horrors. He demanded she rise to the occasion, but he didn’t leave her to face them alone.

She had already made her decision. “No.”

Elita’s eyes flashed green with surprise. “What?”

“No,” Windblade repeated. “I have to go.” She was still afraid of the ceremony, but Starscream was a known quantity--and Solus knew when he had become a _known_ quantity. No doubt he would squawk with outrage at the thought of being ‘known.’ She smothered a giggle at the image.

Elita grasped her arm. “Windblade--.”

Windblade removed her arm from Elita’s grip. “Your moment is over. Excuse me.” She moved forward and left Elita behind with a sense of relief. Elita was her past. She would get to determine what her future would get to be.

The servants awaited her in the hall, and they escorted her down the stairs. She halted when she saw Captain Barricade waiting for her. “...Captain?”

He gave her a shy smile. “It seems inappropriate for a princess to go to her wedding without an escort, and your servants would murder me if you rode and wrinkled your robes.”

“Or made them smell of horses,” one of the servants added pertly as they opened the door to the low carriage she hadn’t noticed in her surprise. "You _never_ get the smell out."

Windblade smiled at her helper as she climbed inside. It was a low-slung Cybertronian carriage, and a single horse was pulling it. The carriage was only big enough for one person, so it was likely easier on the horse. Captain Barricade was on his own mount and was leading the horse pulling her carriage.

“Are you all settled?”  Captain Barricade inquired as the carriage jolted with her movements.

"Yes," she called back, and then they were moving.

As the carriage moved from the palace to the outer road, she could already feel the presence of so many people, watching her arrival or awaiting the ceremony. She and Starscream had both agreed the wedding ceremony needed to be public--their people needed to see the vows they took, to act as witnesses. The press of their lives against her magic made her nervous again, and she caught herself compulsively smoothing down the skirt of her robes. With an effort, she stopped. Her spark rang in her ears as the carriage slowly made its way to the center of the city square, and her hands--robbed of something to do--began to sweat. 

When the carriage stopped, she stood and waited for Captain Barricade to open the door. As she stepped out, she looked around at the gathered crowd that was cheering. Starscream, in ruby-red robes and slippers embroidered with gold, was waiting for her near the front of the square. His face was blank as she made her way toward him, and that only increased her anxiety. Was he having second thoughts? Was their marriage going to begin poorly?

Behind Starscream, Lightbright wasn't so distant. She beamed as Windblade came up to next to Starscream, the ritual red ribbons and silver goblet of spring water already waiting on a pedestal next to her. The crowds quieted as Windblade faced Starscream, and she hated that she couldn't wipe her hands dry. It would be noticed, and moreover, the silk wouldn't absorb it. Nervousness clawed up her throat and settled there as a solid lump.

Lightbright cleared her throat. "Starscream, prince of Vos, lord of Iacon--have you come here of your own will and consent?"

Starscream didn't look at Lightbright. "I have."

"Windblade, princess of Caminus--have you come here of your own will and consent?"

"I have," Windblade said, her voice clear. It was a ritual phrasing; magical bonds like the one she and Starscream were consenting to could rewrite a person's entire magic, and it was crucial that all parties were there by their own consent. 

"You have come here to be bonded with your own magics and the magic of Metroplex, the demesne both of you serve," Lightbright began, "and to be witnessed by the people you serve. This bonding is meant to formally tie your magics together. Do you both consent?"

"Yes," Windblade said, and Starscream echoed her only a beat behind.

"To be bonded means to know each other intimately," Lightbright continued. She wasn't speaking loudly, but everyone in the square could hear every word. "You will know when the other is sick, wounded, hurt, or harmed. It will make you a partnership of equals, for nothing can be hidden between you. Do you both consent?"

This was the moment Windblade expected Starscream to balk, but to her surprise, he said, "Yes."

"Yes," she repeated.

"In accepting this bond with the demesne you serve, you are vowing to serve the city and its people, to be their needs before your desires, to defend it to the death. Do you both consent?"

"Yes," they said in a perfect chorus.

"This bond means you cannot ignore a cry for help or assistance from the people you serve. You cannot allow injustice or corruption to harm the people you defend. Do you both consent?"

"Yes," they chorused again.

"Finally, this bond means you cannot harm each other," Lightbright finished, "either in words or deed. Do you both consent?"

Starscream's gaze, which had never left Windblade, sharpened as he said, "Yes."

"Yes," Windblade said.

"Extend your hands."

They reached out, and Windblade wrapped her hands around Starscream's. The air was completely still--not even birds sang or insects flew. Carefully, Lightbright wound the red ribbons around their wrists, and as Windblade looked down at what Lightbright was doing, she could see the slight glimmer of white magic on Starscream's skin. It glinted in pebbled light, and as their skin brushed, she could see silver flares when their magics met.

The ribbons tightened until they couldn't let go of each other, and then Lightbright left the ribbons alone. She turned and lifted the goblet, and as it hovered above their joined hands, the white magics on her and Starscream's skin lit up until the silver goblet was nearly white in the reflected light. "Drink this water, imbued with the magic of your demesne," Lightbright intoned. "Drink as your final act of consent.”

She had to tilt the goblet toward Starscream and then toward Windblade--they couldn't hold it with their hands being bound. As soon as the water touched her lips, Windblade knew it was spring water from Metroplex's source spring, and the magic ripped through her and Starscream in a blaze of light. She may have screamed--she heard Starscream yell with pain as the magics from their ceremonies, Metroplex, and their own collided in a whirl around them.

Lightbright was forced to take a step or three back to keep from being thrown back as the magic grew into a spire that connected with the sky and beyond. It pierced Windblade and Starscream to the spot as the natural, wild magics that had created Metroplex cleaved to them, more magic than their bodies could hold, but somehow they were holding it. The silver magics slowly dissipated as they were absorbed, and when the magics cleared, Windblade and Starscream stood there without moving. The scarlet ribbon that had bound them, a symbol of the life magic that connected all of the magics in that space, had disappeared, and in the ribbons' place were thin red lines, one around each wrist.

Windblade licked her lips and tried to find something to say, but Lightbright beat her to it. "It is done," she announced, and the city exploded with cheers and whistles. 

Windblade needed to sit down, eat and drink something, and sleep for roughly a thousand years. Her ears rang still with the echoes of the magic that had passed through her, and her vision was shrouded in witch sight--she could not see individuals, only rough shapes internally illuminated with red trees. The only face she could see clearly was Starscream--her husband. He was as tired as she was, and his eyes kept flicking as he caught the light of various magics of the area.

Though she knew she would regret it, she glanced down, and she saw the silver pool that made up Metroplex's magic. Her ears roared with its strength, and her knees wobbled. She might have fallen if Lightbright hadn't come up and steadied her. "Easy," the red-and-blue tree that was Lightbright whispered, her voice cutting through the magical din, "we'll get you both inside soon."

Her hands were frozen in her grip on Starscream's hands, and she could see he wasn't much better. The purplish-green magical tree of Hook came over from his side on the square, and at his touch on their grasped hands, the muscles relaxed enough for them to let go of each other. "Magically drained, the both of you," the healer said crisply. He must have been using magic so that she could hear him--there was a slightly double intonation to his voice. "Let's get you both to the ready room I prepared."

"R-ready r-room?" Her teeth were chattering and she was cold, despite her layers. The ceremony had taken longer than she had realized--it had begun at mid-morning, and now the sun was past noon. That would be the magic. It always interfered with her ability to tell time.

Hook's magic rested on her skin, steadying her. "Yes," he said, "we knew you both would be drained. There are chaises and something to eat."

Starscream stirred, one of his legs nearly collapsing under him. Hook caught him, and Windblade glanced down. She could see all of his injuries, or at least, the ghosts of them. There was a thin red slash behind his knee. It had been healed, but the magic had awoken the memory of it in his muscles. It would fade. Her own skin throbbed like she had been burned. Life magic didn't just include the pretty parts.

It took the combined efforts of Lightbright and Hook to get her and Starscream out of the square and back up to the palace. The ready room Hook had prepared was on the first floor and near the palace entrance, and Starscream collapsed on the first chaise. She made it to the second one further into the room before her legs gave out from under her. "Please tell me we don't have to move for a few hours," she groaned.

Hook was already trying to get Starscream to drink something. "Three, at least, before you're expected to show up for your own reception."

"Whazzat?" Starscream whined, his voice higher than usual as he sniffed the cup.

"It will push off the symptoms long enough that you can cope, provided you eat something and sleep for a bit." 

"Gimme," Windblade squeezed her hands toward the cup. Lightbright was already coming toward her. "And no one expects us...?"

"For the next three days after your reception? Oh yes." Lightbright perched on the edge of the chaise and carefully dribbled tea into Windblade's slack mouth. "No one expected the light-show you two provided."

"Mm?" Windblade said.

Hook cleared his throat. "Did either of you know you were that powerful?"

The tea was working--the magical trees were slowly coalescing into bodies again. Starscream grunted, neither a confirmation nor a denial, and Windblade said slowly, "I thought I knew the shape of my power, but last year's events proved I didn't know it as well as I thought."

"I don't think the binding ritual Mother had in mind _could_ have bound you," Lightbright confided softly as Hook went to the small cart with soft breads and spreads--food that did not require a great deal of chewing. "Not with what I've seen."

Windblade's hand closed on Lightbright's wrist. "Don't tell her."

"I won't," Lightbright promised. She took the plate Hook passed her and started to feed Windblade in small bites. "Eat and then sleep, dear spark. You still have a reception to go to."

Windblade groaned eloquently before doing as she was bid.

\--

Starscream woke up first, to his satisfaction. He stretched his legs over the edge of the chaise and thought idly about how formal robes didn’t make good sleeping clothes. He closed his eyes and listened to the room to re-orient himself--Windblade was an arm’s-length away, still sleeping. She made a slight purring noise instead of snoring when she was deeply asleep. Across the room, he heard the chatter between Lightbright and Hook.

“--everyone in the Temple gets medical training,” Lightbright explained, “regardless of ability. Emergencies need as many people as can help. I can nurse. I don’t like it, not like my sister does, but I can do it. Plus, part of my more specialized training was to nurse the senior priests after a major ritual and they were dealing with magical exhaustion and emotional overload.”

“So that’s where you got that tisane recipe,” Hook remarked. “I’d like a copy.”

“Oh, definitely.”

Starscream opened his eyes again and looked over toward Windblade with a little bit more analytically this time. Her make-up hadn’t smeared on the couch she was drooling on. Honestly, that was kind of amazing. He knew enough about white rice face powder to know it went _everywhere._ He reached out and brushed her arm, but he didn’t have enough leverage to do more than move the fabric.

He grunted and rolled over, accomplishing the minimum distance required to poke her cheek. She frowned a little and snuffled before relaxing.

More poking was required.

“Stop,” Windblade groaned as she tried and failed to catch his hand. “Mean.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Get up.”

She moved her face to be able to glare at him, and she blew a raspberry. 

“Oh Primus,” Hook said loudly, “they’re married and it turns them into five-year-olds.”

Both Windblade and Starscream lifted their heads to glare at him. He glared back, unintimidated. “Come eat something,” he said, “and then you can both get changed for your party tonight.”

Starscream pushed himself upward and nearly yelled as both calves seized with cramps.  He nearly fell forward, but caught himself on the edge of the chaise and forcibly stretched his muscles. It still hurt like all hell, but slowly the muscles relaxed. He still kept up his stretches until he was sure that the cramps would not return as soon as his muscles returned to a resting position. 

He saw that Windblade was standing up, with her back bowed so that her stomach pushed outward. “Cramps? You too?”

“My diaphragm,” she grunted. “Need--a moment.”

“The cramps are normal,” Lightbright chirped as she brought over cups of water. “Lots of magic worked through your bodies and your muscles are adjusting.”

“This didn’t happen the last time,” Starscream grunted as Windblade straightened. 

“Because it was an astral journey, not a bonding,” Lightbright replied, enthusiasm undimmed. “It’s a stronger magical load than your body is used to.”

“Joy,” Windblade muttered, and Starscream was pretty sure he was the only one who heard her. He winked at her, and she rolled her eyes at him.

“Anyway,” Lightbright clapped her hands, because of course she would, “food! Then more comfortable clothes. Well…” she trailed off in the face of twin glares from her sister and brother-in-law, “more comfortable than _that_ , anyway.”

“What time is it?” Windblade asked as she ran her fingers through her nest of hair. “It’s almost past sunset, but…”

“Nearly six,” Lightbright confirmed. “Eat something and I’ll help you get ready.”

Windblade didn’t need any more urging as she ate a sandwich of cold meats. Starscream copied her and felt his muscles unclench. The ritual _had_ done a number on him. Lightbright’s tisane had helped to numb his awareness of it, but he would have to pay the bill soon. “Hey,” he said once he had two sandwiches and drained three glasses of water. “How does your makeup stay on?”

Windblade glanced at him from her third sandwich. “Magic,” she said, her voice muffled with food.

He scowled at her. “You know, you’re a _lot_ like your mother.”

She swallowed and looked up toward the ceiling at her most pious. “I am aware,” she said in the longest-suffering tone he’d ever heard from her.

He debated about throwing a piece of bread at her, but decided not to. Primus knew what she would do in response.

Windblade finished her last sandwich. “Lightbright, will you help me?”

“Of course,” Lightbright said instantly. “Excuse us.”

Once the ladies were gone, Hook looked at Starscream. “I’m not helping you change. You’re not injured, just drained.”

“I wasn’t planning on changing,” Starscream informed him. “I’m fine. But,” he sighed and added, “I may need help to get to the reception hall.”

Hook nodded. “I can do that.”

People were beginning to gather in the reception hall when Starscream arrived. It was so noisy and chaotic with the new arrivals that Starscream could slip into his seat without a fuss. Normally, he would have liked a fuss, but the magical draining was already beginning to present its bill, starting with a nasty headache that throbbed at his temples. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with the pads of his fingers, in an attempt to soothe the pain.

Windblade appeared, flanked by Lightbright, after all the guests had arrived. They bowed to her as she entered--well, she was no longer just a Princess of Caminus, but the Lady of Iacon as well. Starscream rested his chin in the palm of one hand as he examined her clothes. She had changed her seven-layered robes for one of her formal robes, this one black with gold and crimson embroidery. Her hair and makeup remained in place--if it was magic keeping it all together, it likely made more sense to remove the charms when she was done entertaining.

Windblade made her way over to him, with frequent stops to accept congratulations. Starscream sat up with interest when he saw how Elita-1 (dressed in a dandy’s dark green suit and polished silver-stamped boots) actively avoided Windblade. Something happened there. He was determined to know what it was. 

Lightbright came to a stop in front of their table. “I know that you two have your own sleeping arrangements,” she said in an undertone as Windblade levered herself into her chair with a slight wince, “but for the charms to complete, it would really assist the both of you if you slept in the same bed.” Her cheeks flamed. “For the moment, anyway.”

“I have had so much sex with your sister,” Starscream told her. 

Lightbright’s cheeks burned a deeper red. “I don’t need to know that!”

“I’m looking forward to having more sex with your sister,” Starscream continued, ignoring how Windblade was kicking him under the table. “All the sex. Can’t wait.”

Lightbright squeaked with mortification and hurried back to her own table, and Starscream turned to look at Windblade. His _wife_. His spark was fluttering strangely in his chest. “What?”

“Please stop embarrassing her,” Windblade said.

“Hm. No.”

“At least in public.”

“I’ll consider it.” He leaned his head against her shoulder. “We have to face the supplicants.”

Sure enough, well-wishers were lining up with wrapped packages. Windblade gently eased him upright, and the parade began. It took too long--by the time the last one was done, Starscream’s eyes burned and his head was throbbing. He suspected Windblade was only upright by sheer will. 

Finally, _finally_ , they could leave. They leaned on each other as they went up to their rooms. By mutual, unspoken, agreement they went to hers. Her bed was big enough for them and the cats. Starscream stripped out of his fancy clothes and left them on the floor. Windblade found a washcloth and wiped away her makeup in long streaks, and when she pulled her golden fan hair ornament out, all of her hair fell down her back.

They both crawled into bed, almost naked, and fell asleep immediately. Weddings were generally for the attendees, not for the people actually getting married. Starscream accepted that, but he hated the headache and hoped it would go away.

Sleep claimed him, and he didn’t care anymore.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments do mean the world to me. I know that this chapter is later than I anticipated--my work life has gotten really difficult lately, and the stress/anxiety is keeping me from writing. It's hard to write Starscream when I can't _be_ Starscream.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always welcome!


End file.
